Thirsty light on a trail
through foothills that can’t sleep. An owl coughs
fur and bones out from a mesquite branch, the pulse
rate of the desert slows.
The stones in an arroyo wake up to better
see what treads on them: a lost soul
seeking refuge or a palo verde
tired of being rooted
down and trailing its roots behind
as it goes wandering.
A star on every cactus thorn and a coyote
running with the moon
between his teeth.
Blue memory, each step a guess in the dark.
Two o’clock can’t see
where one o’clock has been. Which way
to rain? No difference
to the sky between
thunder and a prayer.
.
David Chorlton
.