only three fourths of a mile
below the last camp.
A very hard day's work is done.
At evening I sit
by the edge of the river
listen to its roar.
Deep shadows settle
into the canon, sun down,
darkness coming on.
The waves are rolling
with crests of foam so white they
give light of their own.
A chute of water
strikes a great block of limestone
pile ups and rolls back.
At the sunken rocks
the water heaps up in mounds,
or even in cones.
At the surface rocks
water strikes and is shot up
as in a fountain.
And on the river tumbles and rolls.
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