by John Grey.
I’m here for meditation
on the splendors of creation
but the kids are more intent
on seeing how far they can toss a rock.
The Rio Grande has been carving
out this canyon for eons
but brats born in the last decade
don’t give a damn for that,
love nothing more than
chasing ground squirrels,
screaming for soda,
teasing the mules.
Clouds cast shadows
over the creased face
of centuries.
Sun buffs the cliffs,
orange and amber.
But boys are more awed
by themselves
than nature.
They yell.
They fight.
They run.
They laugh.
And eons later,
here I am.