Walking Down into Cebolla Canyon

Everything about us, for better or worse,
we make ourselves, with marvelous exceptions
like the snow peaks rinsed in rose light
at dusk on the Sangre de Cristo range.
Or the bleached, broken jaw of a mule deer,
its teeth scattered among cactus wreaths
beside the trail, down from the mesa,
where the river stammers against volcanic
rocks and pools where spooked trout skim
through aspen leaves tumbling in clear water.