NO MATTER THE NEWS
The sun slides within
a narrow plane between the eve
and the top of the ridge,
a blinding crack of light,
later now, moving south
from Sulphur Peak,
sneaking south towards
shorter days, cooler nights –
towards less urgency
to saddle horses in the dark
where white-haired winter waits –
a frosty grin, a chance of rain.
Imagine the curiosity
that measured days off peaks
of pyramids, off spikes of stars,
tiny wedges of days
to make a moon, circling
full while Apollo rides
the ridge and back again,
again and again and again,
no matter the news.