The Last Blue Morning

In the Blue Light

The call of an elk startles me.

I look across the rolling brown

and gray hills at the sewing-machine

bobbing of pumpjacks

and feel the disappointment

shiver me like touching steel

on a hard frost morning.

It’s the same feeling I get when

I mistake the wind cutting

through the wires for a whale’s song

or the drivebelt slipping in a pulley

for the screeching laughter of little

girls playing who are gone.


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