She swamped me. Buried me alive under mundane debris. Pen, paper and the sweet quiet of my bed evaporated into lists and deadlines that raped the muse; left her staggering in three-night dark, desperate for bearings.
I returned to another rock crack; a six mile pilgrimage into ancient lands of the desert bighorn. Dressed in quick-dry sandals and shorts, my strong legs maneuvered through slick rock drops; water-hewn walls where the sun was lost. Sliding torso down wet passage; feet braced against walls in precarious chimney steps. Through wet sand and around small pools; I dropped down, down with gravity, faith-driven towards some unknown light.
The primal descent delivered me to a final pool, waist-deep in frigid water with an unknown rocky bottom. Teak dove in ahead on command; swam to a protruding boulder where she clung for several minutes until I caught up and we departed the water together. Two more narrow curves and the slot opened up on a wide sandy wash bejeweled with boulders, drenched in sun. I sat my cold-soaked body on a rock to dry.
Seven miles that day. Sacred seven and the season’s first canyon wren trill. Four desert bighorn leapt from boulder to boulder in the craggy mountains above. A historic presence, they have been here for hundreds of years. They, the spirit keepers of these lands.
We, a partnership of soul and body on the new moon cusp. Debris-free.