Dry River

Out in the dry riverbed I wander through corridors of corroding rocky soil. Randomly halting, I gaze at the clean colored stones under my feet. Pale-shaded, ochre, vermilion and mauve―what was the poet’s phrase? Ah yes, "The infinite sum of particular things."

Just a few simple elements: sky, rocks, mountains, the steaming cup in my hand. Can moments like these ever be fully realized? I pause . . . I hesitate. A revelation is just at the edge of things, borne on that dry breeze caressing my skin. I smile and dismiss the half-formed notion of a desert satori.

And yet. The slanting sunbeams pick out discrete objects; boulders and plants glow in the desert splendor. The wind shakes a dried shrub, creating a slight, subliminal rattle.

And yet . . .

—Rebecca Saito


Photo: Dry River—Death Valley, 2002