By the river
mechanically rushing
its brown waters
from the great
turbines, he stands
carefully on polished
rocks, surveys the
waves with a dark
pensiveness that bears
no relation to thought
but is the arrow instinct:
to drink.
Then he places
one delicate hoof
in the swirling
current and
lowers his heavily-
crowned head.
We are all
what this
river makes of
us—frightened,
sad, ashamed.
The Desert Bighorn
knows none of
that, only the
flick of cool
dark water
on his lapping
tongue.
Leave a Reply