Afternoon in the Canyon
The river sings in its alcoves of stone.
I cross its milky water on an old log—
beneath me waterskaters
dance in the mesh of roots.
Tatters of spume cling
to the bare twigs of willows.
The wind goes down.
Bluejays scream in the pines.
The drunken sun enters a dark mountainside,
its hair full of butterflies.
Old men gutting trout
huddle about a smokey fire.
I must fill my pockets with bright stones.
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Comments about this poem (Afternoon in the Canyon by George Hitchcock )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Percy Bysshe Shelley
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Edgar Allan Poe
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William Butler Yeats
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Maithili Sharan Gupt
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