Moab's Hills

        All the hills
        in a prophet's eye...

        In our Land Rover,
        we leave the low, flat landscape
        that holds the shimmering Salt Sea.
        
        The smooth straight road
        reaches up into the mountains,
        where it wraps itself tightly
        into curves following contours.
        Knolls rush up at us only to fall
        sharply away, arising as other hills
        farther on, farther up emerge,
        both steeper and softer.

        Eyes scan across yet another
        canyon as we careen,
        always on edge; and suddenly-
        huge faces in the rock emerge,
        like Mount Rushmore,
        but no man-made chisel carved
        the stunning contour of features
        set to emanate from the avalanche of time-
        the avalanche of fluent rock erosion,
        staring back at me.
        
        Craggy, weather worn, furrowed faces
        watching with eyes that are nimble shadows-
        shelves and slants and surface
        gnawed by time and tale.
        The road leaps sharply up and
                                        

        I look down deep rocky
        chasms, that approach
        with lurch and loom
        and sloping plateaus
        sprigged with stony pasture:
 
        Each relatively level patch
        bears one lone shepherd-
        Bedouin robes draping him
        with historical allusions.
        
        Black rocks become a tumble of goats.
        White stone stubble...browsing sheep.
        Height-depth-dark-light-
        nothing seems anything
        except ancient.

        Even recent excavations
        (crude surface mining)
        has the appearance
        of an archaeologist's mound
        divulging treasure;
        gnawed by time and tale.

poem copyright ©2000 Anne Selden Annab