Three sequences
Roadrunner Meditations
(first appeared in Amethyst Review)
Every Day
(first appeared in misfitmagazine)
Monsoon Watch
(first appeared in Cholla Needles)
Roadrunner Meditations
Saturday; the no-news channel morning show
has animals in far away locations. The world is still
the world there.
And outside in the back yard
are quail who like to roll in the dust
where grass used to be. There is bad news
somewhere, but the white scent
of jasmine drifts across the front door
and declares a few square feet of peace.
There’s no way back
into the dream that ended
with a dog’s bark at daybreak. Some
dark wisdom disappeared. The minutes slow dance
from six to eight to ten. A cheetah
watches for prey between the trees. A sloth
hangs upside down from a bough.
Suddenly a streak
of patchy sunlight runs
across the lawn at the speed of an idea escaping.
There’s a mean streak to his elegance.
Did the dream hold any answers
to the questions of the day?
It flicked its tail and ran.
Don’t ask where to. Never question
sunlight when it flies.
*
In the ditch back
of the drug store, lizards like
the grasses dry and weeds
that don’t take long to disappear. Here are waste paper,
plastic cups, boxes
filled with nothing but the wind and whatever’s left
of newsprint blankets: someone’s
overnight address.
It’s a good place
for passing through, damn
the lack of scenic in the scenery, this
is where survival’s crest
stands proudly between the forehead and the sky.
This place without ambition,
where heat pools on the ground and shadows
run for their lives
is the promised land for him,
a dusty world that no one
else will claim.
*
Straight ahead between two moods
a desert path lifts one step
into light and
one back into darkness. Philosophy’s been here,
so has faith,
but both got lost
on the way down
into the arroyo. Shady now, and on the rocks
balanced above walls dissolving,
making space
for new ones as the earth pushes hard
from beneath
is the sudden insight
into who and why
and where it all became this here and now.
Hurrying behind a dry mesquite as though
time itself were chasing him
he disappears.
The light opens for him
to pass and closes behind him when he’s gone
to where he’s looking back
at what the world would be
without him.
*
Wind and nighthawks beneath the stars
and it’s quiet as worry in the kitchen, quiet as darkness
passing through the yard. The window worries
that its frame won’t hold, the back door
worries that its hinges
will come loose to fly off down
the wash, and the left shoe
worries that the right one will walk away on its own.
Come dawn,
time for starting over,
and each time the Roadrunner appears
he’s a surprise, he’s
a lost thought trying
to find the question
it’s an answer to.
*
There’s a fine trail to take
for walking with only
the ground underfoot for company. Nobody here
talks about the soul,
gives instructions
on how to be alone, or to look inward.
Clear sky, blue
all the way to eternity. Stop,
and the view of distant mountains says this world
never ends.
The mind can fly
from here, the body has to walk. And unexpectedly
breaking through
the desert’s revery with a yip and a coo
comes the Roadrunner’s call
in the key of mindfulness.
He’s concentration running
and it matters not at all
that the rocks around him
have become
meditations turned to stone.
*
He was here, that much
is certain but where he’s gone nobody
will say. He’s good at making mystery
of a sudden appearance on the back wall and then
turning fact to fiction
with a flick
of his tail and an updraft of light
that lifts him to the roof. He might return
tomorrow or
not for several months; he’s no
messiah, neither does he stop
to be admired. Religions don’t explain
where he comes from, where
he goes and whether that is food
or indecision
in his beak. It’s a lifetime’s work
to wait for the improbable
when his return could never be
as beautiful as dreaming it.
Every Day
I
Breakfast’s in the balance while the mountain glows
and hummingbirds fly out of the sun.
French Roast and a marmalade cat
stealing bread.
Low clouds read the news
to the desert beneath them
and it’s never good, but silence
is good company on an early walk
with inner thoughts on a leash.
It’s a good time
to ask the foothills what
the arroyos have planned for the day
once dishes have been washed
and dreams swept up from the carpet
where they fell in the night.
II
Yesterday’s news for a Yellow-breasted chat,
another life bird
for the yard, an instant’s clarity
against obfuscation. Whose world is this anyway? A coyote
wanders without caring who
the new pope is
while the old gods still live in the sky.
III
From lunch to evening shadows, watch the ridgeline
float with nothing to do but count
the minutes as they fly
and listen to daylight
telling the mountain that it owns itself.
Easy trails wind through the web of forecasts
predicting rise and fall
in temperatures and tariffs, tantrums
masquerading as government at work.
IV
Bright wind on the run, window view with time
sparkling in the trees from here to the world
the saguaro voted for. Hawk above the back yard
pinned to the sky with light
and looking down
at a lost desert
making its way back home. The prospects
for summer rain depend
on which channel the clouds are tuned in to
and the high today is forecast
to be intolerance.
V
Now that taxes have been paid the days
are here to have and hold
waiting for darkness, no secrets in the sky, full moon,
coyote’s eye, cool air
sweeping stars aside
with summer’s blessing
for air conditioned souls
VI
A Black-headed grosbeak in the back yard
drinking while a bulletin
of news flies past the window. There’s no field guide
for deception. Best let it go
to higher ground,
settle where the trails never tell
the trees what they need to know.
VII
Nine forty-five
and a clear view in all directions for the hawks
watching everything that moves
from the bare
and twisted boughs they make
their own. And every day
is different by the measure of a wingspan, through
breakfast, lunch and laundry
with a break for imagination.
Soar briefly
at the altitude from which
mendacity is visible; running
faster than belief but soon the owl
will dip in flight,
take hold of a lie
and display it for the moon to see.
VIII
Life goes on
with cats and morning coffee, whitefish,
tuna and a spoonful of uncertainty.
And on to sleep, downslope
from the desert,
uphill from the interstate,
listening to the great-horned truth
calling up another day.
Monsoon Watch
Dark spirit of desert skies, battle hymn
of weather, a year of time
condensed into minutes,
wind finding its way back
to the world. The flood that leaps
over a mountain. And in the oaks where they gather
to endure it, light turning
into thunder on vultures’ backs.
(1)
The doves at three o’clock are waiting
out time before the heat
begins to doubt its purpose
and a few degrees slip
away behind the mountain. A lizard climbs
the back wall, another
climbs to the sun. Forecast in the balance,
monsoon’s due but so
is justice;
how goes it for the people
resting out the afternoon beneath
a downtown bridge? Out of sight, out of mind,
take a detour to avoid
the burn marks on a soul the sight of them might leave.
(2)
Accordion tuned to the key of memory, window frames
alight, thunder in the stars
and a radio playing sadness to sleep.
A song begins
that has no end, the one
the border knows by heart
about darkness as the promised land
that won’t reveal who
it was promised to. Midnight trees
rattle their leaves,
a polka keeps time with the rain, and the rain
beats rhythm
by the drop.
(3)
Rainfall washes the Grey hawk’s call
out of the cottonwoods,
a sudden wind
blows it back again. River with nowhere to go,
oaks bow to its passing. Red earth
flowing, lightning flash
in a snakebite sky.
Grass seeds sing inside the earth
where mammoth bones plough
history open. Century found,
century lost,
all gods float away together
on one current, the sins
disappear with the prayers.
(4)
A wing of shadow rises over
a stream that hurries on its way through
grasses in high country. Water singing, thunder
in the earth, a lake
shaking free of its bed.
Sunlight runs downhill
to where all things
are captured, measured, and set free.
The deluge takes what it can carry
in passing through, and tangled in the boughs
of a Ponderosa Pine
leaves a flash
of exhausted lightning.
(5)
Late afternoon, hummingbird o’clock,
a bush in the shade, and a Ladder-backed
woodpecker climbing the palm
that leans against light. Soon the sky will be
a playground
with no answer in sight
to the problems of the day. The stars
may be beautiful but
the desert is just
a dry cough to the universe. It’s another warm night
to be sleeping outdoors
and it’ll rain or go dark before morning.
(6)
Sirens on a dark road
announce a weather change, wind coming down
from the moon says
more of the same. Warmer for a day then
anybody’s guess
what follows: mesquites toppled,
pond water whipped to a frenzy, dust
masking mendacity. And there will be
road rage late at night, just the casual
picking of a gun from the glove compartment
or sudden acceleration
to overtake the heat.
(7)
A barefoot corrido on the trail of work,
money’s never homesick
and there’s debris in the wake
of undocumented winds.
Temperatures rise, temperatures
fall, there isn’t a field guide to identify
who comes and who goes, the ones who are thirsty
with not much to do but thumb a ride
on passing time.
Showers of English, Spanish,
any language with a word
for trees or grass or rivers. Dry year, wet year,
new life, new country, there
but for the grace of storms
we go.
