We pass the long blue and white
tent, chairs set in sedate rows,
men and women silent shadows
in the heat; preparing for a revival,
they pay us no mind as our car
tires whine past on soft asphalt.
A bay horse grazes in a field; black
Angus stand belly-deep in a farm pond,
tails switching flies, heads down like
somnolent statues cut out of starless
skies. On and on we drive, a little lost,
following the thread of a shaky map.
We’re looking for a river. We’re looking
for a fresh green current, swirls of mica,
trout circling the kettle like holy ghosts.
We’re looking for the long white banner
of a waterfall, the hidden path behind
a plume of mist and ragged lace.
When we get there, we’ll slide across
slick dark gray rocks, push aside moss
cascading out of deep cracks like prophets.
We’ll crawl into that cool dark space
behind the veil, listen to the river preach:
granite gospel from the mouth of a mountain.
Deborah A. Miranda