Today, running along the river,

                 dead leaves cling

                 to cathedral cottonwood branches,

                 snap in the gusty breeze,

                 give a crisp hiss . . .

A wafer thin wind spades up

loose dust from the path,

and above me,

gray leaves clash soft in towering boughs;

                  sounds

                  that might be heard in the silent yard

                  of a monastery

                  like the sandaled steps of monks

                  praying, walking

                  over the swept yard,

                  walking and praying.

–Jimmy Santiago Baca