It’s like forgiveness
The long stroke of raven’s oar
dips into deep sky and cuts across
the fast-moving shadow of a turkey vulture.
Here, beneath the pines, it’s dusty
with the hopeless aridity of late spring
in the weeks before summer rain begins.
It’s so dry, there’s not even a stinkbug
out for an an afternoon stroll –
just me and the carrion-eaters.
Down by the highway, the riversong
of Dodge Rams and diesels rolling by,
and up the hill, a breeze wandering
the mountainside, making its slow way
into the valley. I can’t feel it yet
but I can hear it.
