|
evening in the eastern sierra
the long singular vowels of towhees
needle each other as they settle
into the trees,
bumblebees sliding down to teeter
on lavender’s thin
flowered stems.
we have climbed through the sun
lustering a fine dust risen
on the canyon’s breath and
filled with the clamor of goats
far below and clanking
toward repose.
we wouldn’t come this way just
to see them – mottled,
varied and ancient –
except they exude a great wealth,
a sustenance from a land of dry
sleeping gods, back
when the name of our tribe was us,
and the only word for the divine:
that which is,
while now the world turns its shoulder
degree by degree into a darkness
deeper than night. |
