this river is all that remains of the great floods which carved these canyons

the old ones tell us this is where time began--an emanation which knows not its own source

yet this crafty creature creeps up on us, an uninvited guest.

and spirits were born with time:
the hawk, the fishes, the bear are the vessels for the soul of time

their gift though, is the unknowing, the ignorance of time's mortal measure

we flat earth walkers, we talkers, are burdened to tell the tale--one of beginnings and endings, of birth and death

the winged ones and the water dwellers see the same sun rising and sinking

though for them, the stream, the canyon, and all it births have always been and will always be,

for they are not cursed to see, the awful arc of this light

they are spared the specious rhyme and rhythm of day and night, the repeated reaping and sorrowful sowing;

the knowledge of the end of days, for everything which had a beginning

It is almost summer
and the hot night
seems so quiet
as the wind on the water
lifts the sails on that ship
sailing west like smoke
from the fire I lit
to burn the driftwood
of my dreams and desires
until morning comes like
that sad-eyed Moriah
I've admired from afar.