The sacred, the profane,
One in the same,
But not always:
In the beginning,
Glaciers receded, and land divided from the great waters.
Waters rushed river banks, carved canyons,
Settled into seas, lakes, and greater lakes.
Five of these great lakes pooled in one area of the world, old.
Waters flow from one lake to another until they explode over a great cliff.
Eagles fly high through the spray, peering down, diving, clawing fish.
In the day, the sun shoots through the spray, arcs into a rainbow.
In the nights, the moon lights the waters path over great rocks
And down the turbulent silver river.
Indians, native to this majestic site, revered, nurtured the land,
And from its waters were abundantly fed.
This was their life, sacred.
In the world, new, helium balloons by day invade the sky;
And helicopters buzz where eagles once flew.
By nights, bright lights, artificial, illuminate controlled flowed water.
The masses of millions fill tall hotels, gamble in casinos, shop stores,
And explore commercial carnivals, museums and festivals.
Tourist gawk at tightrope walkers and daredevils in barrels
Risking their lives for the crowed’s amusement.
This is their life, profane.
* * *
My poem express my feelings about one of North America’s great natural wonders.
The Seneca tribe stewarded this land and rivers for many years before the white man conquered and controlled its future. I have had the privilege to visit there once. I hope this site is on your bucket list. I assure you that you will never forget the experience as long as you live.