INTO THE BRUSH

I have carefully peeled
back the skin of a hundred snakes
and left their twisted forms
curled around mesquite
as so many skirts. Canadia geese
follow carefully worn paths
across an October sky
undeterred by storm clouds
giving chase from the west.
A wolf wanders down
from the tree line to the edge
of the highway. She can taste
the approach of winter,
bitter on her tongue, her coat
grown thick, watching
for a buck to be thrown
to the gravel shoulder
by a passing truck.
In my closet I have
a pair of boots, nothing more
than simple cowhide.

First Appeared in Amethyst Review (Canada), Vol. 8, No. 2, Winter 2000

UNMOVED

In the community parking lot
in the center of Taos,
and old pickup sat complacent
more than parked, rusting
in spots, last painted
by someone in the late ‘70s
perhaps. It might have
been able to move, but it
showed no desire to do so,
tires not flat but wishing so.

That was thirteen years ago,
and it is likely no longer
there, or collapsed into rust,
but in the mind’s camera
it still sits there, beckoning,
unmoving, waiting for an owner
who has moved on, glad
to be rid of the hulk at last.