Clear Creek Soliloquy

by John Brandi

Warm colors of shimmering stones under satin eddies. The stones stand still, but as the sun moves, back and forth they go, shifting shape and color as shadows warp and weave. Where do we go with our last breath, what is there after we pass? Pundits, scientists, troubadours, butterflies, terns, hummingbirds haven’t come up with an answer. Humans wouldn’t listen to a cicada’s report anyway. Too busy riding the teeter-totter of the market, projecting heavens and hells, loading guns, ducking rockets. Think I’ll take a walk upstream, cool my ears at the source. Why not let the dead be dead, stones be stones, the water flow? Sometimes as a kid I’d pretend dying. Flat on my back, in spurs and chaps, eyes to sky, I’d leave the human realm, fade into a larger sphere, nothingness at the core. No matter how tall I stood, when I was down in the dust, I was “out.” Small enough to fit into the universe again. Today I watch water course around smooth granite, curl into itself, regain shape. Into the reeds it carries my reflection, while steady in the current

                                    facing the water’s flow
a silver minnow
perfectly still. 

                                                                                        Taos, NM