Jul/Aug 2007 Poetry


by Cy Dillon

Photography by Kawika Chetron


The sound of water falling over stones
Seems as unchanging a part of this place
As the mountain before us or the escarpment at our backs
But that is a trick of memory

I have heard it softer than the song of a single flycatcher
When languid fish hang in the shaded places under rocks
And the land gives up its cache of water in sips
To last until the next rains

Who could guess the speed of a dove
From its placid voice?

I recall when it went over the outcroppings above us there
The roar left no room for feelings except fear
Starting a thousand feet upgrade just three miles away
The water left walnut and sycamore logs
Above the hundred year banks in eighty-five

After so many seasons of breathing the sound like air
The droughts and floods of a lifetime
Spent with all humility on a forgiving piece of land
I confuse it often with the beating of my heart


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