From Rattlesnake Ridge
I think of Cumbria, of my origins, of the
sight of this valley in the Holocene (were we
here together, before these slow-made moraines?) of
the tawny pele tower bedaubed in May
with marigold and lilac,
heirloom splendors strangely achroous at
certain times of day. He is distant, difficult.
Fits uneasily on the rough-hewn cross
Robert de Cliburn must have had made. Did he
face this same charry brink alone? Or
the dance of a red-tailed hawk on flumes of warm air,
in full pivot-tilt on a wing of his own making,
the fabled arcs it's traced since learning to fly?
From where I am you are redemptive,
untouchable. Pushing stillness before
you, lifting even the wind from the
Dawn picks through the dark thicket
through which I've just come -
smudges of bloom persist like just-
poured champagne, high-scents of wild sage
and sprucetips are in the air. Manes of hyssop and
lupine glitter in the sun.
Mt. Si the profile of a spent lover.
Who and where are you?
Loping unoriginally, you pass by unaware.