Your final morning in the field.
Before sunup, in the dark
the pump-jacks
automatically pumping
like thousands
of hearts against
the backdrop of stars
sounds to you like the herds
of elk you listened to in the forest
waiting for first light years ago.
You are alone in all that darkness
as owls glide by and the coyotes
shuffle along ridgetops
like so many truants
wondering where best to hide
from plain sight.
It’s one of those swallowing
darknesses, resisting
all color not
shaded with the deep night.
The May air is crisp in this last
blue morning.
So deep a bent blue light
you know it bends hard
over the horizon to find
you in the foothills above
the city. You walk between shadows,
a blur, disappearing before this day
can break finally over you.
