The Stream

Clouds laced up the pointed cliffs
Like white laces through high tops.
It was the end of summer,

The start of a long weekend.
A nearby, once-rural town
Was celebrating peaches,

Once an important harvest,
Now a nostalgic party
Involving vendors and booths

In the city park, plus games,
And, yes, some competitions
Involving the quality

Of peaches and peach cobblers,
Pies, preserves, ice cream, and such.
In the canyons under cliffs,

Tourists from around the globe
Focused on their adventures—
Hiking, cycling, scenic flights,

And pictures of each other
Having all those adventures
To celebrate being here

As you have celebrated
Being there and there or there.
The clouds all dissipated

After flaring up briefly
In the late afternoon light.
What were you celebrating?

What were you most focused on?
The many changes of pace
In the way everything changed

Each instant of the weekend,
The ordinary weekend,
Ordinary holiday—

The speeds of the vehicles,
The milling of the locals
At the peach fair, the surging

Of the internationals
Boarding at the shuttle stops,
The clouds winding, unwinding

Around the steep, crumbling cliffs
That defied you to define
Beauty in inhuman ways

Not even to do with life—
Just stone compressed, lifted, blown
Grain by grain into the stream.