We walk together again through Coyote Gulch,
sisters, side by side,
seven years of separation since our last excursion.
The water is so shallow now;
my legs sprouted while I wasn't watching,
like the winter-battered trees will have sprouted
hopeful green buds upon my return.
We were always exactly the same height,
down to the wire,
competitive about it--
growing together but not in alignment.
By the time I won,
edged you out those few inches,
we weren't talking anymore.
I wouldn't have gloated, besides.
I wonder if you noticed.
Now here, with the river at my ankles,
you appear beside me--
an echo off the canyon walls,
a trickle of spring seeping from a rockface,
a pool of tadpoles scattering at my heels.
And we are sisters again,
shaping fairyhouses from storm-soaked mud.
bend to the earth,
gather a handful of fine, white sand,
It filters through your fingers
and I feel the time slipping away,
feel myself moving between bodies,
and together we grow and change
and halfway between then and now I lose you completely.
And there is our glitch,
there is our fault in the sandstone,
there is the neat red dot,
placed perfectly between two Aprils,
I turn a bend in the river,
am peacefully alone.