in the canyon, 11-02-2001, a poem

walking up the canyon
along the creek
over rocks, grasses,
stinging nettles.

thoughts beginning to turn inward
outward, fully encompassing
questioning, discussing,
finding answers as my
feet find their next step.

can this surge of energy
this ball of fire be my heart
telling me what to do?
does my mind have any
place in this conversation?

birds sing, rocks fall,
no breeze is blowing,
no air is moving,
just calm, soft, and chilly
in this deep remote canyon.

carving cliffs through my thoughts
leaving alcoves where some collect
for another time, but bringing the bulk
of them downstream into the
pulse, beat, blood of my body.

* * * * *

waves of frothy white pour
over Big Horn falls, and maybe
in the distance is the faint knock
of big horn rams in rut.

leaving snags of dead life behind
isn't good for the senses,
tying into old growth roots,
branches, arms of thought,
wisdom isn't to be bought by a long life
spent leaving things behind in the name of
success.

and I wonder if we can't just
all say fuck it to the clock,
shut it off and throw it away,
leaving that wrist band for some
other slave to wear.