I asked for this primitive afternoon away from it all

absent alarms, clocks, reminders no traffic noise, no sirens no voices

unless you count the throaty gargle of the creek that runs through this Texas ravine

or the whisper of bluebonnets that sway like a thousand tiny bells. All the traffic I need is here

the pebbled rush of water the sporty-convertible wind in my hair a gray feather racing downstream.

The shadow I cast sitting here on a flat rock bare legs dangling in the current

points to whatever hour I choose to write with a wet finger.