Friday, July 25, 2014
Watch how the light folds into the earth
at a seam called the horizon, a bright thread
pulled taut but not broken, woven like a tapestry
between a latticework of tree limbs and the cold
stone distant mountains. Knowing the same light
lit the morning, tugged at the sunflowers
until they turned east, steeped all afternoon
like a cup of tea, and still stitched the day
shut is what it means to believe. Stand
with your hands on your hips and tell me
this sunset is not the reason you were born.
Friday, July 18, 2014
Wet dirt from beside my irrigation pond rises
to the barn’s eaves, up where the roof peaks,
so far out of reach the swallows simply stare
down at me with a bird’s disinclination,
their yellow-tufted heads bobbing like hardhats
in a construction zone, workers plastering
fresh adobe nests to the barn’s red boards.
How ancient the labor, older than our ancestors
coiling clay, studying this architecture of mud.
Friday, July 11, 2014
1981:Yei : Pauline Allen. Chinle Area 21″x 28″
Tour de Sheep
From the checkerboard highway
I watch two women leading four sheep,
one tethered to each hand.
They hurry along a footpath,
not talking, not even to their sheep.
The older woman stays ahead,
the younger close behind.
It’s a beautiful evening, a few patches
of wool with mostly clear skies.
Friday, July 4, 2014
From this overlook, even at noon,
a finger’s width of light, the trees
down there a hue so near to black
they shimmer like vertigo’s stars.
And a ragged river flossing a jagged path
through nine-million-year-old teeth.
Gambel oak along the rim
that double as clouds, cumulus
deciduous, spilling over the edge.
The black bear more cinnamon
than black, afternoon shadows
tumbling down steep canyon walls.
And the endless roar, the white noise
of turbulence, rising like a therapy
from a deeper place than sleep.
Friday, June 27, 2014
“How much will it cost to mount this moose head?”
“It’s kinda small, it won’t cost that much.”
“What do you mean, ‘It’s kinda small?’”
“Oh, it’s nice looking and all, good rack, full lips.”
“But it’s not worth mounting?”
“I’ll mount the entire animal if you like.”
“You’ve been spoiled by big trophies.”
“At least mine’s respectable.”
“You could say that.”
“I’ll engrave it on the antlers.”
“Maybe I’ll go to another taxidermist.”
“It makes no difference to me.”
“Someone will eventually tell you to stuff it.”
Friday, June 20, 2014
Thursday, June 12, 2014
(For Brother Scribe)
He never saw the sign instructing him
to turn. His friend warned it would be white,
barely discernible from the blossoming
Sego Lily. For twelve misdirected miles,
dust billowed behind him before he
doubled back to a steeper road, the soft
sand whispering like a prayer.
This time he took the road anyway,
promised himself a dozen more
before giving up his god-forsaken search.
When a bell tolled from behind a curtain
of pines, he stopped to listen. Yes,
it sounded like it came from up ahead,
and when it ceased an echo remained,
as if it might be a calling.