And then . . . there’s evening

when the sinews

of the working river

begin to glow . . .

soothing the muscles

of the gritty row women—

out of the shadows settling into

cottonwood groves,

bowstring on  bowstring,

from some cavern recess high above—

the sauce of a cradled violin

licks fire . . . into every pore

of every creature

canyon rim to canyon rim

By Gregory Hobbs, Yampa River Trip

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