It begins, as usual, with the narrative of water:
spring on a dark slope,
the ensuing drape of green. At the base, a kidney
wrinkles in its skin. If this is a metaphor for faith, then
it must be
impacted by the
next scene, where a great canyon weighs against cliffs cloaked in
perhaps a thick rain. I could describe the dense afternoon with
the desert, the hail,
the available tree, the decision: soak or wait.
this case, no one did. Would you believe me if I said, as I
of hail melting in-
to my shirt, that it changed me? And when, just past the ridge,
saw the burn crouching through the valley, when I saw the bore marks
the ridges, that was when
I felt the pockmarked future, the balance shifting from
to air. Remember, the water and its course have long ended.
The hills cling
in silence, while on
their ribs, the assiduous trees sculpt themselves from their own embers.