By Dan Hein
Rocks sharpened to a fine point,
Jutting upwards towards the sky,
Trying to reach the heavens, but failing.
Sand crumpled up perfectly, crumpled
Like dad’s old shirt, lying on the ground.
Mountains seem to bend at will
To whatever divine force put them there,
Twisting throughout the valley.
Clouds fly low, low enough to grab
If you made it to the highest point;
Some have the intelligence to
Soar high above instead.
Dry riverbeds flow through the sand,
And you look at them, and you want
So desperately for water to rush
Through them, but you know it won’t.
Two hikers observe everything here
At Zabriskie Point, smile, and then
Turn around and head back home.