Nighttime Qualms

The sprinkler just quit,
and that's great
because I just realized that it was irritating

I can't think
can't sleep
can't find my way
home again

even the sound of the crickets,
which usually calms my nerves,
is instead tearing them into little pieces
of red fire.

Itch,
sigh,
twist my leg out from under the covers.

from the open window,
watch the moon slip behind a cloud
the way a woman's curves
slide into white silk.

watch it break out,
like a child from bathwater,
chilling the hot night
with its naked silver beam.

but right now,
all I want to see is the dark
places behind my eyelids.

Quiet

Sunday night:
the room still smells like skunk
or dead coyote
or whatever the dog rolled in today.
My hands reek of it, too,
lavender soap's attempt at masking the ugly scent.

Now she's asleep in the basement,
curled up behind the khaki chair.
why she sleeps on that cold concrete floor
instead of on the cushioned rug...

It's quiet now
but her nose still quivers after that rabbit.

If I could expend that kind of energy at day,
perhaps I would be so tired at night.
Then I wouldn't mind the feel of a cold floor
against my chin,
tail curled over my nose,
the fresh stink to fill my dreams.

Desert Song (Feb. 7, 2005, So Dak)

How I miss you, sweet blossoming desert.

How I miss those vast blue skies,

filled with dust of a distant land.

I miss your fresh warm kiss

of oranges and sunshine,

of cactus flowers

and heat rising from the crusty sand.

Oh, how I miss you, watchful towering mountains.

How I miss you wrapped in thunderclouds,

rains sweeping across the thirsty dirt.

I miss your blooms stretching to catch one drop

from the threatening sky,

each bud thriving,

knowing its life depends on you.

How I miss the long, curvy road into Saguaro,

how I miss Pima Canyon,

shaded by Palo Verde trees.

How I miss sitting atop boulders lining the creek.

How I miss that bright moon,

luna llena

and the endless sky of stars.

How I miss the drive to Camino del Norte,

and the view of the Catalinas, the Tortolitas,

The Tucsons.

How I miss Hugh Norris Trailhead,

and prancing through Pima

and venturing up Ventana

running up Esperanza

and endlessly and hopefully up and up until sitting

on top of Wasson Peak and watching the sun set,

listening to your spirit sing.

Meeting Coyote in my Driveway

She must have slunk up from the wash
that ran alongside our yard.
She might have ventured so close
for the smell of rotting garbage
I’d forgotten to take out that Tuesday.

I don’t know what surprised me more—
That she was there,
or that she hardly moved,
even after we’d startled each other.

In an instant I’d thought I’d feel fear—
There was none;
I met her yellow gaze
and her steely eyes latched on.
There was respect, a deeper sense of peace,
and somehow, humanity.

She crept silently along the fence line
and looked back at me in my astonishment.

Then, I knew it was her
who called out at night to the moon,
who broke sleepy dark with her cries.
I had listened to the lonely song each night,
as I lay hazily awake,
waiting for sleep.

Then, I knew her loneliness.

The Story of Clouds

It’ll storm later,
he said
and downshifted the old pickup
as they left the highway,
this afternoon,
and he told her the story of clouds
as they rose above the Tucson Mountains
in the west.

She knew the story by heart
and listened to his simple wisdom
and watched his blue eyes
as they told the tale of sky.

They took the back roads now,
making their way north
away from the highway traffic,
through the smoldering city.
Each block of the way home was lighter
with the ease of silence between them.

It’ll storm later,
he had said,
and as the first vibrations of thunder
tiptoed into her heart
she leapt up
and ran to the patio door,
feeling the rumble in the glass as she drew it open
and smelled the rain.

She called to him,
and they stood,
listening to the turbulent story of monsoon

as it swept up the aching silence of desert.