A flock of crows
reflect the midnight moon.
A coyote howls
the starless horizon.
Quiet settles
the slow footsteps
of a sleepless man
as he strikes a match
lights a filterless cigarette
and pretends a herd
to keep watch over,
imagines a Winchester in his hands.
Dry plentiful sticks,
tinder twigs,
impatient for lightning
to flood the arroyo.
A robin in its nest
shifts over eggs,
over the low rolling rumble
the southwest wind blows
across the emaciated Rio Grande
and up the dry gullies
flanked by bicycle paths
and signs warning of flash floods.
September 02, 2013