The river flows beneath decaying cliffs; Its water mountain-cool and crystal-clear. Sunshine through cottonwoods projects gold glyphs On swaying grassy banks and grazing deer. One hundred streams converge where melting snow Runs down from peaks exceeding two miles high. Late-summer thunderheads kiss rangeland low And slow. Charged storms the creeks revivify. I walk the sun-scorched path that switches back And forth through fields of scree to peaks remote. A hat trick greets me at the saddleback: A view, a cool breeze, and a mountain goat. A silver ribbon laces verdant farms And sews a patchwork quilt of alpine charms.