Saturday, December 10, 2011


Mauve meadow at dusk. Winter silence.
And, around, the mountains’ audience.

You step up from the lower road
onto dry grass, just an instant of a climb

and passing between two trees you enter
the stage, the wing of openness.

Your dog barks and waits. Barks and stares.
You throw the stick that draws

an arc in the dark. At once
paws rush and shuffle in a line of frenzy

that underlines the quiet, those seconds
of a few steps that embrace


1 comment:

Dave King said...

Very compelling. This held me from beginning to end.