August 23, 2007


Beyond that next turning of the canyon walls,
a single weathered oak, its leaves turning
honeyed russet, makes a dry and rustling
music against the fissured granite.

It sings of seasons turning round and round,
of harvest and putting things by for the
long darkness ahead, the perfect round
nights lying like stones in the gloaming road.

What flaming sunsets still to come, what
radiant stars and round moons await
on autumn nights, pouring their blessing
light on earth below and smiling.

The first line is taken from Edward Abbey's magnificent Benedicto.