and we stood on the summit of

Square Top Mountain

under thickening skies,

silent with wonder, nourished

from climbing August slopes

above treeline, our big dog

delirious in a riot of

wildflowers, white sun, wind

pouring over the divide,

everything one thing,

the virgin wood and the

raised ancient seabed, the

nameless tarn a dark mirror

spun with the blacker shadow

of a spiraling raptor

The Sand Road

for Sean

dune so steep the old dog stops

Médano Creek spills a dark braid

cold over hot sand and burning feet

great groves of pine snag low sun

copper melting on grooved bark on

deep green needles on crowns

full of cones on amazing ravens

perched high and hacking

conversation out of the space

spin the wheels and you’ll start

backsliding the key is finding

friction’s efficient edge

Your River Has a Beautiful Town

Bright trout among smooth rocks agree,

as do the dun and redheaded wrens.

Sunset on the current-rilled river

must be the star’s best ritual.

Nomads and bar-haunters

kayak home under cottonwoods

and do not regret wind and whisky,

nor forget how a soft embrace

banishes the done day, transports

the traveler to well deserved dreams.

Rough winter leaves as always

and exposes the brown hill has again

hidden its green intentions. What

can poor men and women do

but find one another and insist

trouble be silent at night. This spring

same as the first and the last to come.

Even among cinders of the railyard

black-poisoned with industry, purple

will appear, yellow and white,

colors that can’t stay but come anyway.

Your river has a beautiful town, so