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By Sam Calhoun

Mountain laurel rim the canyon,

a bearded grin stretched miles--

Watchful, never worried the lessons

the land might teach a foot--

where to go, how to stop.

At the edge every stream goes quiet,

Mist in the air echoes out--

My footsteps press their signature

into the wild path down,

a fickle agreement, muddy, heavy,

only as good as the next rain.

Below the cliffs I find those echoes

again on the Sipsey Fork. I cup

the water like scriptures

etched in beech leviathans bent,

leaning to hear that whisper.

Above, white blossoms drift

in swirls down the canyon,

catch on my cheek like rain.

I lower my cold hands, reach again.

Who am I to question a river?

On a far limb two moons dance--

gentle, light, those gold eyes blink,

then carry the world onward,

feathers shaking loose old words,

os-dv-da: it is all good.

I wait at dusk to hear my name.


About the author:

Sam Calhoun is a writer and photographer living in Elkmont, AL. He is the author of one chapbook, “Follow This Creek” (Foothills Publishing). His poems have appeared in Pregnant Moon Review, Westward Quarterly, Offerings, Waterways, and other journals. Follow him on Instagram @weatherman_sam or

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