The wet sand, when pummeled, makes dust explode like bombs,
The flood-lit indoor ring seems training ground for war,
A squirrel screams from underbrush in battle signal
As rabbits form to squadrons of targets moving
Oscar Mike in game-tactical misdirection.
Even the trail has a logjam, two horses and four
Dirt bikes, uncertainly swerving. But Ava rides Dixie
Bareback in earrings for the rose pink ridges and
Distant violet peaks as backdrop to loping
So the dim light can pull through her, in red aether.
The oaks resist the edges of the mountain.
They brush away my thoughts, but I’ve shaken the fur
Out already. The trails are cold. The knight pulls the
Helmet off. The swords have been laid down, all ruined
In futile defenses of old, unopened wounds.
Below the reddening stables, ground lights turn on.
Like us, they’re on a dimmer switch, to keep the horses
From going blind. Our enlightenment is only
Liberation from that dimmer ticking down our light
Til we no longer fear what won’t say its meaning.
The dust still kicks up in somber purple hues, the mauve
Tack shacks like upright coffins from an old west set
Still claim some empathy, and the steel still glows
In files of unused fencing. The oak limbs turn to snakes
Burrowing into something that is still not seen.
Now in the darkening it’s clear enough the path
My own light gives, not to trails that lead to darkness
Or empty stalls that fall to sun-worshiping sleep.
Instead, the sky itself releases gently its hold
And the maker of what goes dark needs nothing.
