Waters That Move

Waters That Move

Listen, you may hear it
as it gently rounds the curve
by the cottonwoods,
surely it sounds
as the water washes over the stones
gurgling and chatting its perennial
story to anyone who pauses quietly.

Yet in the mountain highlands,
water roars and hisses, boils and foams
plummeting from snow melt
into headlong velocity,
shooting by pines and moose and
soaring raptors looking for movement
in the damp brush or a wild blackberry tangle.

Water forces boulders down gorges,
but not while you're looking,
never while you're looking.
It's when the churning mists rise up
in the spring melt,
water volume becomes erosion,
a thunderous cracking of rock against rock,
birds scatter, coyote startles, reptiles dart
and you asleep in your soft bed
miles away.

Yellow Sky Rain - poem

Drops of rain hung
from nearly every faded leaf
still clinging to the amber trees,
sun rays pierced them into elegant crystals
outside my old window,
as thunder echoed its predecessor,
I in my black chair watching
as it poured from the sky.

Steady, lilting rain graced the day
for those who wanted it,
for those who could not forget
the terrible drought.


A bit of fluff from my afternoon.