Sandy McKinney

Climbing The Mesa At Dawn Wherever my boots disturb the stiff grass a flutter of white wings announces early rising, or late revelry. This hour between first light and sunrise is a crossroads. Halfway up I stop for breath and maybe a moment of society. The rock I sit on is a mountain shielding an almost invisible community. Nearby, three I¹ve always feared: scorpion, centipede, and hornet, sodden with dew, test their locomotion. I let the foot I¹ve raised in automatic self-protection fall back in shame. How small they are. My own huge form seems ponderous beside them. The final climb is steep, and panting at the top I could believe that lighter molecules of air have turned me lighter too as though I¹ve left my weight below among the rocks and stand here in a body of pure breath. But earth still holds me fast. Even before I feel its rays I know by the shape of my dense shadow the sun has risen.

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