Matt Pasca |
RAINER AND THE RIO GRANDE |
My son thrashes against
half-sunned peaks
of the Sangre de Cristo
white limbs
flailing over
snakeweed and sand.
He needs our camera
to zoom in on the gorge
from this Taos turnout:
he is six and ravenous.
Here, the cleft gap
is so deep and vast our breath
plunges, vertigo
grinding corn
into meal.
My instinct is to lecture
him on patience, how water
took a million years
to gash the plateau.
But he would
say this river
must have rushed,
must have wanted so badly
to find the Gulf
that it just couldn’t
and didn’t
wait.
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