In the sky above
the deserted mining town
silver dollar moon

lonesome whistle of the train
moving slowly down the tracks

bitter morning chill
the river aspens remain
in their greenery

a few ducks heading southward
a loud flurry of wings

awakened again
by the mountain lion's scream
in moonless silence

hawk takes a little field mouse
off to its hungry nestlings

the one-room schoolhouse --
loose threads dangle from a seam
in the school marm's blouse

the patchwork quilt hangs limply
in a downpour of spring rain

they called it Dry Gulch --
chatter of a little brook
among the poplars

the hired men come in to chow --
sweatmarks under their armpits

the noon hour passes --
sliding snow turns to water
as it hits the stones

grandma at the henhouse door
enters and gathers the eggs

"like hell yer sayin'"
grumpy miner yells -- finger
in the foreman's face

on the way to the outhouse
under a full autumn moon

abandoned mine shaft --
big bear tracks are headed in
but none coming out

"if there's gold in them thar hills
I ain't seen no one find it"

tucked into shade
of this slide's massive boulder --
mountain violet

two stumble-bums heading south
along rusted railroad tracks

the odor growing --
salmon have finished spawning
on the gravel beds

how soon the birds of prey arrive
and their raucous noise follows

what the Indians
didn't do -- nature managed
flash flood takes the town

only a tin roof floating
and a rag doll bobbing by

lengthening shadows
ranch hands wash up for supper
at the leaky trough

the field horses snort lather
and lower their heads again

hoeing the spud patch
along this high mountain ridge
one more arrowhead

raptor along the rimrocks
on an early morning hunt

the storm moves along --
branches of a stunted pine
hold the rainbow's end

and now there's such a twitter
in that stand of sycamores

the whiskey bottle
held up to the moon's light
"we ain't got much left"

the bonfire burns down -- embers
begin to turn gray with ash

Cherry Creek Canyon
once again dark thunderheads
just blowing over

kept the worn silver dollar
his dead paw had given him

the mules laboring --
another supply wagon
takes the mountain path

news of the James boys robbing
even the stagecoach ladies

marshy headwaters;
dragonflies the same pale blue
as mountain asters

he cinches the saddlebags
as the mare nuzzles his face

November 3, 1996