Sunday, July 25, 2004

fox canyon
In the canyons of a dusty Spanish afternoon, the emerald waters have washed me clean. We said goodbye to humidity there in that sandy castle village poised on a hill, hidden in the wilds of a silver-leaved olive grove.

Caressed by a dry hot wind, our feet sent pebbles skipping on their way down to the river, where they carried us.

Floating effortlessly in melted snows, neoprene buoyant, currents lazily tugging at our black shapes like dried leaves, or fallen branches.

Under the tree, down into the cold tinted purity where our ears whispered our depth, with shapes blurred ascending in a bubble flurry.

Over the edge, tumbling down into a glimpse of heaven where the falls tickled lush green moss, roaring of their pleasure, where the ageless crowds splashed and swam, laughed and lived.




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