Robbin, July 2011
The answer in art appeals,
resides within, not without.
It adds, it multiplies
boundlessly: fresh, unnamed
senses like ripples from a pebble
spreading across pools
we harbor in our hearts
apart from politics,
from the legions of agendas
to satisfy the appetites
of power and greed
where might is right.
Art is not correct
and never stays the same,
illusive as the canyon wren’s
cascading song—I hear it now
again for the first time:
bear clover forever stirred
in memory miles away
in time and distance
trout fishing as a boy.
drycrikjournal 
A river runs through it. Ever changing, never changing.
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