Nathrop

Yep, it's true, I wrote a poem, my first in years. Enjoy.





It’s so quiet here, it’s loud.

That highway sound? Wind in pines. Maybe a touch of river. The high note.
Aspens shaking off their bling with a rattle. A yip in the distance.

Imperceptible snowflakes bite your fingers with a tinny pop. So icy,
They burn like a needle dipped in a candle flame’s

Dance

But not long enough for it to hurt more than my lover’s spiny beard
Against my parted lips.


The yip is now a cackle, rising
From mezzo to screeching soprano in a round of shrieking hoots.
Hyenas have more dignity. Coyotes put low rent porno flicks to shame.

Behind, the house groans and hums. Refrigerator clicks into a purr, heater rattles
A rude cacophony lobbying against the symphony outside.

But it is warmer.

Chalk cliffs draped in a thick fur wrap of dusty clouds, transferring Colorado

Into

China


I step away, fumble
With my camera for a useless
Snapshot,
Then return to find them gone. Moved on to caress Mt. Princeton beyond, to tickle Cottonwood canyon whose warm waters still rise like steam from my skin.

I am the lone witness to an infant storm.

Warmer calls.