East

face of the hillside
wind whistles through cholla spines
the grasses, reverent

renascent, sweet with
seed reaching firm lament
reflected, burnishing stars

 quick
ears of hare, track
center of stone
a perfectly round emptiness
which hangs from
a claw of the juniper

the breeze, shifting, barely rustles
fencepost, cricket, star

nothing to hear
nothing to see
watch and listen
everything trembles

unknown
fecundity anticipating flights
distance
not with standing time
plane beyond place

dry
thin river climbs
  falling
  with
  out
  legs

where shadows
pool under low branches

where’s the moon?