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| ("Hail in the Desert, Northern Nevada") |
Do the heavy clouds
Mutter their tears and glower?
Well, and if they do
Sweet sage answers with
Kind and liberal breath,
And so does the dirt
Proclaim itself with flint and dust
On a rainy day.
The Quail race, heads forward
And beside them tiny chicks
Flutter and bounce like feather balls,
And so, outside our evil world
They move to their own
Beating of hearts.
So, too, the snake coils
Under sheltering rock
Lizard scrambles, looks over his back
And darts into brittlebush.
The innocent datura
Luxuriates in soft trumpets
And grows it’s fatal fruit.
Above, the Hawk soars
On solar winds, below
Ancient stars, all
Enmeshed in the hunting of time.
We know all this and yet…
And yet somehow, we still can
Call our lives civilized
And say they’re the benighted ones.
Worth only the subjection of pens
And the yield of the butcher’s blade.
Ah, but let the lay of the land
And the current of wind
Expose this ridiculous lie.
The native ken of the reviving Fish
The patience of the creeping Newt
The watchful eye of the Rabbit
And the yip of the Coyotes
Proclaim a thousand nations
And histories beyond our understanding.
We think ourselves so bold and knowing
But where does intelligence lie?
Oh, muttering clouds who hold
Our so many lives
In their vaporous hands
The sun beyond, who’s mighty beams
Rest quiet and modest upon our fate,
Perhaps they know in their ages
What was really meant
When a lonely, wise wanderer
Spoke to every heart and soul
The words prophetically ringing
In my ears today…
The meek shall inherit the Earth,
Someday.
