First the windmill, then the salt house
folded into the earth below the old road
that followed the creek around the hill.
Board pens gone for pipe corrals, I still
look off between calves stretched
for marking – to inhale the calm
across the canyon, mountain steep
clear into the sky. My years know now
how to welcome something
that can’t be seen – to breathe deeply,
thank God and build another loop
to hold the moment a little longer.