Midmorning sun in the southwest corner of the continent
plates collide to push up from the desert -
young mountains strong and stubborn
steep rock, cliffs of scree
scrub oak and desert brush
Serrado country.
With skin cooled by thin breeze
I lay peaceful here,
watch a milky blue sky go yawning
from horizon to horizon
while grandfather sun, hung and glowing there
shines all the way down
finally to rest on bare skin shoulders.
In a borrowed bed of fallen needles - one
meticulously assembled carpet over time -
I lay unassuming,
gaze skyward at Grandfather pines
Citizens proper. Contained
in that elderly wisdom where nothing surprises
and all goes without saying.
Swaying easy in the wind
while unseen and underground
ensues the complex intertwine
the gnarled thrust and search of arms
rooted to the center of the earth.
Hear him now jackhammering
the Nuttail Woodpecker
eighty feet high and unceasing
like he doesn’t know its Saturday.
Breaks loose a pinecone
through the air to free-fall
the soft impact and tumble downhill
finally to rest, marks the place
for new growth.
A hawk circling overhead pays no attention
rides a warm current
over ridge
and out of sight.
