The Canyon

In the canyon

(It used to be “cañon”

From the Spanish

Meaning "tube") 

Camp by the river

Tents and tables and a fire 

Trees perched impossibly on the sides of cliffs

The smell of dead trees burning and the sight of white wispy

Ash. 

Bald rocks with 

Tufts of sprouting dry green hair in their crevices

Lichen covered rocks.

Water bubbles and froths 

Around water-logged stones 

Becoming more water 

Coursing down the river

The sound of it

I want to jump in

Knowing it will be freezing

Snow melt

The breeze

Human stillness in the “quiet” of nature

A small black bird bathes in the shallows.

Someone has drawn a large neat spiral into the sandbank

Though the water has eaten the bottom half

Prints of dog paw

Haphazard, excited in the

Wet sand

Evidence of the tide 

Golden flecks shimmer

Alluvial dust, fool’s gold 

The sparkle of minerals 

Restorative cold stone soup 

A tiny bug on the paper

Too narrow for a tick

Let it wander

It meanders into the fold of the book 

Once a tree

The infintessimal and the infinite 

Drive up through the mountains

Wander down to the stupa

Wind and light

Quiet reflection 

Write the names of those recently, and long ago,

Dearly departed

In the book in the temple

And hope that their names here

Will make their restless spirits peaceful. 

Deer and chipmunks and impossible birds 

Sit beneath shady trees and 

Bright blue sky

Beside the rushing river 

With friends and chatter and see 

Human consciousness 

Elevating towards love and light

Until the next big bang,

When the universe 

Returns to the size of a pin 

And the canyon

Is no more

The end.