I asked for
this primitive afternoon
away from it all
absent alarms, clocks, reminders,
no traffic noise, no sirens
unless you count
the throaty gargle of the creek
that runs through this Texas ravine
or the whisper of bluebonnets
that sway like a thousand tiny bells.
All the traffic I need is here
the pebbled rush of water
the sporty-convertible wind in my hair
a gray feather racing downstream.
The shadow I cast
sitting here on a flat rock
bare legs dangling in the current
whatever hour I choose
to write with a wet finger.
This poem first appeared in the James River Review (2004).
Used here with the author’s permission.