by H.L. Hix
Each leads back to the source of the source,
or would lead if what wants to return could.
The crevices that pock the bluff’s gray face
that makes the rise the river bends around,
the bluff aswarm with swallows, no crevice
not nested over, modified by mud,
the whole fizzing, reconfiguring space
above a river long reconfigured.
Those crevices, that accommodating calm,
but the cave’s mouth, too, inconspicuous
until each dusk’s hundred thousand bats swarm,
its shadow exhaled, darkness to darkness.
And the crumbling canyon over whose rim
occasionally a condor rises.