The sun rose slow and steady, not like a fire but like breath. It was the kind of light that comes only once a day and only if you’re there to meet it. We stood at the rail at Mather Point, the canyon below dark and waiting, like a great beast sleeping. Cold clung to the rim. The wind was not loud but it was honest.
The shadows were long. Our legs stretched out in front of us, thin and strange. We looked like giants. There was laughter. That was good. Laughter belongs in the morning. You forget that sometimes.
Down in the canyon the light came piece by piece. First to the far walls. Then to the buttes. It crept down ridges, caught on ledges, spilled into the stone. The colors shifted from iron to gold. Then rust. Then rose. Then flame. It was a light you could feel in your chest.
People came and went, but the canyon did not care. It stayed. It always stays. You look out and feel small, and that’s a good thing too. The world is big and made of stone and time and wind. You’re only passing through.
A raven called out. A child pointed. Two lovers held hands in silence. And below, the river still ran, even if we could not see it.
We walked back when the sun was full and warm on our backs. Our shadows were shorter then. But we had seen them long and wild, cast over rock that remembers more than we ever will.
It was a good morning. The kind you carry with you. The kind that does not ask for words.
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