I write to you dear reader because we call

looking out over the plains below a quarter moon

I am grateful for the moisture but in years past

and something else  which once seemed immortal

many eyes but no eyes

once a month I get a check for forty dollars

and we hadn’t eaten lunch and the future was uncertain

oh, that we were all able to soar through the day 

clouds like a just crashed wave just above the mountains

remember there is something greater

I meet a woman who used to live here

driving down the canyon the plains are hidden in smoke

I drive through the mountains the road flanked only by pines

One day soon it will be the pikas their habit finally eaten up

the backyard grass is blonde but the weeds are flowering

on the package of kettle corn that we got

bison insignia on a semi truck

world’s burning you can tell by the light

I’m told the Rio Grande has gone dry

to know the teachings of the trees