Red silt and sediment.

The gathered rust of tapered centuries

where weakly crumbled canyon clay

had turned to mud when there was water there

then dried to dust

along which treads

a faceless charcoal pencil-sketch wanderer,

There is one night that I remember in particular. It’s the night when you and I laid on the field next to the old town library and looked up at the star-strewn sky. Do you remember the night? I can remember the way the full moon lit your face in the darkness. It was almost like you were up on a stage, the spotlight following your every move, and I the only one in the audience. The seasons had just turned and there was a light breeze in the air. You wanted to go to the field to see if any flowers had grown yet. I told you that it was too early for any flowers to have grown, but we went anyway. I grabbed your hand as we walked along the shortcut through the woods and you clenched my hand with a fearful strength.

We never went home that night and when the sun came up over the old town library the next morning, we awakened to a feeling of warmth in the air. The light breeze had stopped blowing and the branches had stopped rustling. . .