As the duet of wind and greasewood is played,
Sun and cholla duel.
The frills of palm fans
Oscillate at a higher frequency,
Sounding out the gusts.
Mountains never stop
Their variations of blue, half vapor,
Half form.
And even the clouds are alive,
Presiding their allegro over a
Giant ligature, carrying browns and greys,
And birds, across the sky, only to
Disappear in time.
The scale is too large
For the human to absorb, except in
Chariscuro of alpine topographies,
Drunken abstractions, upholstered fabrics
Rolled out for gold carpet admiration.
One hill and then the next comes into highlight,
To show its wares of stone and face. The dust
On distant roads is yet another phrase
Thrown from the unnameable distance, some
Fact of life beyond our sight.
When the sun
Exposes the pinkness of the crags, they
Seem as vulnerable as any of us,
Before it sets to purple's deeper wounds.
And the evening lights bring the silence.
The moon hangs on the staff like a long rest.
