Around the trunk of this old,
sweet-scented, Jeffrey pine
small pieces of bark lie scattered
like pieces of an old jig-saw puzzle.
In the shadow from the light,
now the shadow from the cloud.
Locusts grind their electric whine.
The mountains crest into ridge,
into stony ridge. The ridges
swale and knob. Snow.
In the shadow from the light,
now the shadow from the cloud.
Like big, burdened ships slowly moving
the clouds pass overhead.
Precious little fawn.
Little still-life fawn.
In the shadow from the light,
now the shadow from the cloud.
The earth and rock dam
is a good barrier. It holds
the glassy reservoir fast,
pressed to its delicate edge.
In the shadow from the light,
now the shadow from the cloud.
And the clouds pass over.
And the clouds pass over.
And the clouds pass overhead.
rdking