Onion Creek, Utah

Long, low echoes of my ancient flute linger in banded sandstone walls. 

The echoes sing in harmony with the trickle, hiss, and roar of water music.
They smooth the glitter of a wide canyon stream. 
They caress a red maple leaf on cool, damp clay. 
They rise high, to chase fleeting white clouds in an azure sky. 
They praise each brilliant orange globe mallow. 
They dance with mystical reflections, then enter the soul of timeless rock. 
They will resonate within each grain of sand for a billion tomorrows. 
They will welcome
        each warm ray of sun,
        each pure drop of rain,
        each crystal flake of snow,
        each soft whisper of wind. 

The long, low echoes of my ancient life have found peace.

Will Walsh