8.
The Gorge
Mountain walls
plumb
to Dark River.
My dugout-canoe
is swooped
down the rapids—
white water churning
rocks flashing by-dropping
in lunge
forward
and out
into
calm blue pool
reflecting
Night's Sun |
high
in the branches
of a Sycamore...
only
the water
talks...
concentric ripples
form
and
follow
beyond
eyes
circumference
as a fireball
heaved
across
the sky
flashes to dust |
