poem

people up in the foothills are willing to 

stop a bit by, look long at sunsets over

all the water, well aware of miracles - 

well infused with firsthand alertness

to beauty, to the holiness that is these

places in our recurrent sights, of waters, 

trees, grasses, wildflowers, and the 

sweet and cheerful plops, plops of the 

fish of all these lakes and rivers and 

ponds and reservoirs, all around us. 

Here, we turn our eyes to what this one 

photographer saw, for maybe her hundredth 

time: a place of sunset, and always of spirit

for her, a place with a history of ranching, 

a place of fish of too many generations to 

count and recall...

who are we, husbanding, as they say, these 

waters and souls and soils of The Land?

what do we get to say, to witness to? is every

living thing here not a miracle? is all this for 

us, or simply, on its own confluence, for grace?

take this never for granted: we are gifted, we

who chose to live among All This: these timeless

places of a planet’s hopes and dreams: that 

all this will renew and renew, and renew, again...

that this is all the infinity, we shall ever, ever know....