The shattered granite banks of the Klamath
have been rounded by time—more time
than I can imagine, though I try—and water.
If the steelhead would show and were
in a talkative mood, they would tell me
something about patience, although perhaps
through their absence, they are still trying to teach.
This, I have down. I could stand in this cold
current all day, all year, forever; what
else could be this perfect? As an eagle
flies overhead and a pair of black bears
roam the far shore; all I am missing are things
that don’t matter, and you. Where are you?
How could days be so sublime and disconsolate?
I still have a lot to learn from this river.
The sharp edges of where whole escarpments
have sheared off from my heart have yet to be
smoothed over. Landslides neither foreseen
or witnessed, but devastating in their force, await
the healing touch of water. Meanwhile, distant stars
are my cold companions.
Photo/Ray Larsen
Román Leão 