Racing over, around, between
glistening boulders,
surging through splendid canyons
at ten thousand feet,
Clear Creek, Colorado,
roiling brown waters aching for the sea.

I get out of the Dodge,
half slide down the bank.
I grip a young aspen,
brace myself,
squeeze off a shot of the brave spruce
on the opposite bank,
stand there awhile
in absolute awe,
then dash up the bank and into the car
just ahead of the cold mountain rain.