OPEN GATE
A parade of shiny cars
twenty feet apart descends
the mountain road
much slower than their ascension
to the Christian camp
in the pines of Hartland.
A dirge-like procession
less eager than their speed
uphill. It feels as they pass
that someone may have seen God
in the narrows alongside
one of two gravel trucks,
late Good Friday afternoon
and testified – witnessed convincingly
at the campfire as they waited
for the full moon’s rise
over the Great Western Divide.
Perhaps last night’s red lights,
flashing only. A solemn respect
for everything in place
by how the herd moves
in unison – a bunched-up, yet
evenly-spaced slow dance
on this most glorious morn:
three shades of gold flame
eclipse green south slopes
in a side-canyon
above flailing limbs and twigs
of white-barked sycamores,
greenhead pair preening
on the creek bank – Hereford
cows and calves congregated
at the water trough, warm
bellies turned toward the sun.