Walk on the stones

the river has gone

a smell of dusty moss

hot winds rattle and whisper

through the Cottonwoods

the cicada's song

sends us dreaming

thoughts of ancient times

civilizations turned to dust

as we go

heat waves dance on far hills

in the end

the last pool

with earthy river smells

green moss and cattail

turtles and half seen fishes

dive in

down into the cold and dark

break the surface

ripples sparkle in the sun

mesmerizing

sunning on stones

quiet for hours

listen to the river

we live today