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The river turned our inner-tubes in long, languid ellipses,
slowly spun us downstream.
And with our talk we cut the same shallow lazy circles,
gliding easily around and over dark deep currents.
"God," said the flutter of a hand, a finger trailing in the water.
What a nice idea, really. Warm, like the sun on our toes,
the notion that a giant ball of fire, hot enough to
touch us through a billion miles of space,
was charming in its improbability.
And beyond that, so easy, so easy to slip into.
Like sliding off a wet rubber tube, and disappearing, inch by
shining inch, smoothly swallowed, until only the tip of your head
remains.
And then that is finally closed over, leaving behind a series
of quiet ripples, growing ever larger, ever fainter.
So easy to melt into faith.
We laughed at our flippancy, and let the canyon walls
bounce and break the sound of our impudence.
AMANDA TRIGG
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