The Perennial Stream

Is the mind between our eyes and hands
Cutting through the desert
The red stone in southern Utah.
My heart is choked, it is the choke stone midstream
The water is pooling behind it.

Maybe I will be a lagoon now, a coyote secret,
Black with fertile dying,
Reflecting the painted desert hopefully.
Maybe we will make it to the Escalante,
Yellow with dust spinning, the wild hair of the current
That will take us to the pretty girls and speedboats of Lake Powell.

Even in a tent with no fly open to the arch of stars
The same dream: I rescue a tiny living rhino 
And it turns into a baby in my arms
And then, when I am happy, it goes missing.

The sun and moon hang in the canyon together,
Everything ever lost is in between.
Gather my things from the trees.
Shoulder all the weight that I can bear,
And walk to the second, the seventh,
The thousand winds. 
Following the stream.

(Thank you for the lovely trip. Your friend,

The Witch.)

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