My bones, know this mountain range
My heart beats like an owl’s wing;
Soft, at the ending of a day.
Summer is fading, surely
Over the empty scabs of spring
And yet, a few flowers remain;
Penstemons and asters
Though their petals litter the sand
Like forgotten feathers.
Who then, calls on the wind
The moon, to transfer the dead
To the field of stars? Who then,
With strong bones, tends
To the living.

Above, on the bleeding cliffs
Petroglyphs illuminate in the sunset,
I see them, the remaining images, linger
In the last light.