(Kansas)
We see our faces, two of us,
propped on our hands,
images changing in the current,
a breeze stroking the ravine
Above us, our car, parked in a hurry,
slants off the black highway
The farmer rolling his tractor across the bridge
glances down and might surmise
city people are fishing or digging arrowheads,
not trying to divine our own narcissus
or compare what we say with what we are
For me, its course muddies sacred
in the afternoon glow, an afterthought
For her, it’s enough they lived here,
Shawnee Indians, they and their children,
faces turned towards the sun,
watching hawk and owl, the circling of clouds
The water shows us nothing
but smooth stones