Banal Pastoral

Hail to the Brinkmann grill,
it feels it all,
that particular shade of yellow on a sun dress,
the whistle in the trees as old limbs break,
the slurping of a mother giving baby clothes away.

All of that, they say, goes into the food
with the smoky chardonnay
and the Himalayan crystals.

Blessings waft to the grasses of Eastern Colorado
where the wind and sun blow grace on
green duned herds and desolate flocks.

The trees lean down
like the muzzle of a dog
as the first hickory notes of skunk
hiss from vapor rings of blue.

The children and the skeeters loom
as thrushes sing their vigilance
and soon there is a silence
of golden evening coals.

The flank steaks never say they're done;
there's no such thing as time
except the sense of things escaping.
The forests will be still
until the fire exhausts itself.