Sally Stratford

After another day hiking the desert,
I lock the door of my car,
and turn toward the hot springs
in the cool night.

Silence and grace,
the only words I know
in either of their languages,
so I don’t say much.

Not one has made it.
Trout launch out of Snake Creek,
flipping through the air,
vaulting up the waterfall,

I wear her name
and a two carat diamond
which, like a heavy rock of salt,
falls to the side between my fingers.
I’m sitting on a pink velvet chair

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