So I’m seven,
looking out the back window
of my dad’s butterscotch-colored Nissan pickup
as a waterfall of white gravel pours
into the bed of the truck.
From my perspective,
the chute is concealed,
so the gravel comes down from the sky
in a single, milk-white stream.
It’s like a moon is disintigrating on the rim of the world:
the explosion of rock
funnels down through the blue,
a runnel, a downspout,
of tiny white moon rocks
that pelt the windows
and rattle the doors
and drum like rain all over the ground.
Beyond the torrent of stone,
a banner of white powder streams,
blown away like the chaff of Niagara
into a Himalayan blue sky.