the river is a mirror
what does not flow away
past the canyon ramparts
sets down roots
or scurries between boulders in the waters deep
scouring stone in wake and in sleep
I stand on the bank to bear witness
to all that remains
to all that changes beneath the bright cut of the meadowlark’s song
as he whittles winter with his tune
turning ice to gold
these clouds are gizmos
whirring towards the East
chasing the past as the sun slips
into the hot chrome of the sea
somewhere else
the shore is edged with newness
the grass
so sudden to turn bright
rattles like rapiers in the breeze
and lower down
in the mist of the rapids
new growth branches
like antler fronds
born only to eat the sun before
dying
again
am I born the same
to consume this light
to lean into the wind
to divide
and split
so as to catch the sun and feel
God on every surface
to not turn away but to reach deeper
into the sky