Squat on a shaving rock at Zoroaster.
In the gut of the schist gorge,
you cannot see where the sipapu sun
rises to the east this morning
Out of the Little Colorado,
carrying chocolate to the mainstream,
stirs Navajo sandstone and sacred
Hopi salt into the Colorado.
In the minute or so it takes
to extract my razor and cream
from a ziplock TSA hasn’t screened,
a turbine-propelled tide from Page eats
at the blue stripes of my $7.00
Cortez Walmart sneakers.
Down in Phoenix and L.A.?
Get yourselves ready for a nice
I loose my amputated beard
to the current, consign my DNA
On some downstream beach
a heron may stand
and fish upon.
Though I cannot see,
I know a few Harvey House
South Rim pilgrims have walked
this very morning
to a ledge high above
the condor’s nest,
They see what I see,
wherever the light
– Greg Hobbs (Hatch River Guest 28 July 2010)