No matter where the storm,
its rains--the rising waters,
the rocks painted with sulfur--
always discover this place,
a pool, a bigness,
the lowest point for miles.
At the only bar forever
men leave their kills at the door,
laid out like poems in a book of prose,
their shapes surprising the mind,
a pride etched with sadness,
memories of an impossible woman.
Did you see it? Did you hear it?
Hooves cantering behind the brush,
stones falling away from the old mill,
a rumbling, a groan of outcrops,
a love making of jasper, feldspar,
black basalt, the oldest flints.
The dams gave out long ago,
shoulders against the floods,
elsewhere something happens
to a mountain stripped of ores
like an angel robbed of its soul.
One feels grateful at seeing
anything fly, anything run
even if only to take it down,
a bituminous venison, a song.
The way she said good bye
without saying when she'd be back.