Sunday Afternoon in the Preserve

I.
Hieroglyphic ribbons in the trees
Folded around their limbs like the cord of a negligee.
From here, humans seem so silly,
In their cars with bright beams on, aimless, foraging
For fun and meaning in random sense.

But the barrelheads and incandescent cholla
That poke through monuments of ancient wisdom
Endure it all with grace,
They cannot judge these children
Seeking only perfection,
For they’ve lived in it already all along.

II.
Coyotes can hide here, from the dogs and what they mean,
An untouched acre or so
Where all that is made to survive still can.
I find there a can: “Steel Reserve High Altitude Lager”

How far do we have to go to escape?

I climb to the peak past the hill and see:
Millions of lights in the sun’s ember bowl,
Each one a flash bulb exploding with love,
Creating such meaning from nothing.