This morning
Timid over Mount Jordan,
To the east,
A frail crescent moon
Tipped just so-
And how brave I thought
This whispery orb
Balanced atop her crown-
Watching her drift
Through sky and clouds
With pointed peaks
Pilled behind.
While down steep canyons
Tumble
Great tongues of water
Madly licking
About ancient walls
Shadowed by applauding willows
And silver aspens.
A truculent celebration
Of warmth and pull
On melting snow
Mixed within this turbulent rush
That echoes
Through the pines
And the valley below,
Like the voice of God.