The Water Pass
Under a National Forest bridge,
the Fork of some river cut under us
and on the hills we could see where the water used to be.
Vast squares were cut out from the mountains,
timber lined the roads in wet piles
as the rain in the our higher elevation
fell on us and us alone.
The clouds and the fog met their harmony.
The river was flat and flowing,
the bridge looked its age
and the rust was another soft color
for the flow below it to reflect.
I read signs and learned history
while she took the trail
that seventy years of feet had built.
Someone must have seen us from the road
but we never saw anything truly move.
Entry filed under: Uncategorized.