And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
– Wallace Stevens (“The Snow Man”)
Always the backdrop
of deep pipe songs
awakening at dawn—
Roadrunners in rockpiles
like coyotes at night
finding one another.
Or the late November chill
of sequestered bulls
pacing the barbed wire,
their primal trumpeting
echoes up and down canyon
searching for the company
of work, sweet work.
The quiet moments
in between are cold
before and after
a good hard rain
when fog rolls in,
up canyon,
spilling over ridges
to wall the world away
in opaque gray
swallowing sound
to leave you lost,
disconnected, alone
with only the thought
of becoming nothing.
drycrikjournal 