A flock of birds perch on a
sandy island in midst of the Rio Grande. Sun ripples off water, wind
sloughs through cottonwood trees, footprints of various
wander in all directions.
On the return trail,
a couple passes me. The man asks:
river dead ahead?"
"Someday," I reply.
The brain is always
dying and being born, in a quest for what?
we are made perfect not
by what we do, but by what happens