At Night

On the mountain

A bit of cloud
pens a few sheep
enclosed in wisps of vapor,

dinner for wolfs.

The Wolf embraces the wilderness
aware unlike the sequoias,
of the sparkling stars

dispersed across the heavens.

The young folk lay strewn by the fire,
under the blazing star daggered sky,
with their brown camp shoes off.

Impaled marshmallows on slender green spears,
roast nicely over the stone banked fire.
The talk is of grizzly bear and

the red Indians that once
roamed these highland passes.
Unaware of the star calendars

that mark the anniversaries and hold the chronicles
of a folk consumed by the warfire of conquest.
The flare of epic fights and bold flights.

Now passed into distant lore,
a folk gone, but not before their time,
as some social dissenters would say to us.

Simply dinner for wolfs.

The Decent Thing

I lied
to Blanca
the day I left.

She asked,
Where do you get the strength?
How do you get through the bad days.

Discipline and doing what's right.

She nodded,
smiling, approving
with that yes, I know,

what you're saying
is what I would do,
tilt of her head.

I translated her meaning,
You maybe.
But not I,

not for all the tea in china,

The decent thing to do,
I said to myself
telling Blanca

that bad lie.

The simple
truth, maybe,
most of the time.

Is not
to mind
the pain.

How else could it be?

Twilight

The hot press of light
on my burnt face vanished
as the sand pitted propeller

spun, drawing off
a hard splatter of water
from the center of the sweet earth.

Maybe enough today
for a cooling drink or two.
The twisting and creak of the worn

steel blade muting the
toiling years of my
working days.

Wind driven grit stings
my eyes drawing tears
of salty protection

blurring the indigo heavens
towering above
us.

I see you in the dusty twilight
standing on the stone steps
of our house caught in the

impetuous airs of the moment.
faded green skirts blown
tight against your body.

your arm on hip,
in that expectant
loose bone way of yours.

laughing at the joy
of the north wind,
the herald of

brown autumn.

standing under the worn windmill,
the smiles in me comes out
again unsought.

The weight of night continues
falling touching my soul
leaving us only the

contentment of
the working
day.

^