Dear Paul, I write in fear for damn-near
all the gods, the large and small, the holy
and profane deities that will evacuate this
brave new world, flee under fire: open
season, no bag limit for their wild diversity.
We must hone keen eyes and listen closer,
old ears to the ground and its grumbling,
save space between the lines to nourish
and receive epiphanies and not lose faith
in the hapless hands and hearts of humanity.
The rain gods have returned on time to keep
the green alive in this canyon, hope beyond
the numbers and the market to carry on
the old ways, light fires for chunks of meat
to celebrate their visitations with friends
and family, nod and lift a glass to common
senses. The large and small will gather
in our dancing shadows, dodging smoke
upon each arriving breath from up or down
canyon—open space for them all around us.