Somewhere in Arizona
dusk swallowed the day
we spent in gold-red dirt
tracing rocks with unsteady feet
where each thin-air breath
seemed as tentative as tomorrow.
So we slowed our pace, you and I,
we who brought our wounded selves
to each other, paused to feel
the earth’s arms around us
when down in the clearing
like a child’s painting splashed
onto a concrete page, the doe
took center stage—just a whisper,
watery legs sufficient,
her elegant head arced downward.
She knew I watched. She didn’t care
how I envied her vulnerable assurance
and why she arrived uninvited,
I do not know
nor did I invite heaven
at day’s end
to throw stars
from light years away
onto a sky black pavement,
to slash the night sky with shards
of daylight to stab empty fields.
Featured image: Antelope Canyon by Vicente Villamón. CC license.
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