More than a thousand years ago,
a storm passed above the mesa
and rain soaked into the high ground.
During an era, gravity,
with its constant draw, urged water
to take a gradual course down
through layers of porous limestone,

where now this ancient hydration seeps 
out a cliffside overhang
abundant with lush moss and ferns
in an otherwise arid land. 
It falls as a steady shower
onto the foreheads of tourists
who look up from the canyon floor

at this marvel of the ages –
rock many millennia old
weeping to make an oasis –
each droplet that sprinkles their brow
a respite from heat, 
the sunbaked climate no easy habitat;
amazed how columbine grows here,

the way it thrives beside the trail 
in clumps topped by delicate blooms
cantilevered on slender stems, 
the flowers like little red bells
ready for the breeze to ring them,
as if survival in a harsh environment 
makes it joyful.