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Panning for Gold in the Merced River
In a red button of a sportscar,
we zipped through the switchbacks of Highway 120
on our way to Yosemite.
With the top down, we were cooking
from the intense heat of July,
our backs stuck like velcro
to the black leather seats.
We were melting and driving,
meandering around curves
which wiped out our minds of any memory
as we became puddles of sweat.
When we arrived at the Merced
and took out the gold pans shaped like breast cups,
I walked right into the river
and sat down with my clothes on.
The green cooling water
seeped through my black cotton tank
like a porous sponge.
I was mesmerized by the small gold flecks
that shimmered at the bottom of the riverbed.
I began to pan, scooping up the silt,
rotating the dish in a circular fashion,
searching for the hidden nugget
as the heat squeezed out
all the old minerals of lead from my brain
forcing me into present.
It was fire and water, the alchemy of flesh
as my body bathed in cool relief,
my eyes became pools, mirroring
specks of golden light,
and my hands became instruments of God
sifting through mud to find
the supreme being of the mineral kingdom.
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