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