On the mesa
between El Prado
and Tres Piedras
after the sun
has been swallowed
by  the mountains,
to the east a fire burns.
Countless stars
stare down
on the shivering sage.
The scorpion lunges
for the distant hill.
The fire grows
behind the mountain,
the orange disk
rises slowly.
The smallest stars
flee Luna’s furious light.
The jackrabbit
stands frozen
in the road
until her baleful eyes
fall on him,
and he dives
into the sage.
In the dead hours,
once she has
sought her refuge,
the clouds are
no longer shrouds.
The wind
in the canyons.