NOVEMBER
With my step I stir the dust
of ten thousand head
that have crossed here –
cattle, elk and deer.
And on the knoll above the creek,
the charcoal of a million fires
padded finely into dirt
that flows like water
to rise above the heavy feet
of the present passing –
to hang and drift
up and down the canyon,
mixing tenses with each breath
ingested through my veins –
alive again in this place
in my mind. Loose seeds
of thought dislodged
from beneath my feet
waiting to germinate,
waiting for a rain.