The sun calls one last word in its rusting voice,
then leans to the west, sweetening its tune
by forgetting the melody. The taste of light
lingers in the sudden cooling of breath,
the slim branch of a twisted tree over the horizon
where one crow waits for the shadows
the moon will throw over the brome field
two turns of the wheel back in time.
The stand of cedars wakes with a start.
The dry ground loosens its new cracks
and tilts rocks for the snakes to emerge.
The wind moves on, nothing to see here,
while the dark in the dark quiets its old hands.
What’s gone seems like it’s gone for good
no matter how often the song returns,
broken light reddening the opposite horizon
like a heartbreak, the song of the bloodstream,
the journey of stone through ocean to prairie,
every flicker of sound and motion always turning
into something, almost gone, almost here.