Post by LeoVictorBriones (poetremains) on Aug 28, 2009 9:38:12 GMT -5
As you descend at about 6,500 feet
on a trail of scattered rust and indigo granite,
pressed earth and gray dust,
you loop around a ridge and see a Douglas fir
it fans out and hangs on the precipice
like a lonely Christmas tree.
You step on a rock and you lose
your footing for a slight second
when suddenly a squirrel scampers from the little pine tree
in his mouth he carries a young cone
still tinged yellow, you think it looks like a tennis ball
you follow the squirrel, his blue-gray tail bobbing
in a way that makes him seem like something more regal than a mere rodent
you hope to see him pull each scale from the cone
carefully dig in for his feast of tender pine seeds
when as quickly as he appeared
he disappears beneath a mesquite shrub⎯
you continue down your dusty trail.