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.
