From the canyon
the roaring river echoes
an endless symphony
of slow deliberate etching
Sixteen hundred feet
below my rock and ever deeper
it's signature before me
the Towers of the Pine
and beyond
the mountain carving a gray horizon
In the swirling melody
mockingbird and hawk call in the falling twilight
spirits singing
in the tumbling vortex of water and air
in the draw of power
dwelling around the head of sandstone and lime
This is the sound of the great spirit
the steady breath that god takes
and we are the stuff god exhales