Hollows

Sometimes when I stand on this land
I remember a river runs underneath it.
It’s a secret one wouldn’t know from the soil.

Strolling here midst the western wheat grass,
yellow sweet clover and thick red paintbrush,
the ground feels solid enough. So much

of what happens is secret—not clandestine,
really, but it happens without our knowing.
It’s hard enough to take notice of all

that occurs above the surface, much less
to find time to mine for all that’s unseen.
And so often what we find is unsettling—

like a thin crust of earth with a river beneath
it, rushing and cold, moving through
all that we think that we know.

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