Gray overcast in May at dawn,
stillness separated from a slow
awakening downcanyon, not a breath
to shape the thin white cloud
hanging this side of Sulphur Peak
frozen in my mind. Time has stopped
to hold the finches and sparrows
closer to their nests, coyotes linger
curling in their dens as we drink
another cup in silence, inhaling
this fresh dampness with a cigarette.
Softened hillsides begin to breathe
and sigh refreshed—even the barn
comes clean and alive. Pleasantly
dumbfounded, we add occasional
adjectives, fail to complete
a thought out loud, but nothing
interrupts what our old eyes see.
drycrikjournal 