The Grand Canyon is Tired

I remember when the Earth ripped apart. 
It smelled like the beginning of the end, 
but then we began our dance again. 

My core
carved from stratified ash
by a raging river past -
reduced to a trickle,
ruled by that silver siren in the sky
and her magic pull on all that moves,
and moves, 
and makes me curve 
into a dusty cradle -
tired
of hosting wonder. 

Once, I held the songs of whales, 
vibrations of their sorrow
rang deep in my marrow, 
next to fading echoes of stampedes, 
reptilian screams,
buffalo hordes with malted hides
before they sighed upon grateful spears
of hungry men 
who bellow into my belly
disturbing decrepit slumber
for photo op awe
that I'll stash away in gorges,
until the day I can finally pay 
the moon for my freedom.