Up into the leaning shoulder of the hill
The grasses grow, tailings appear.
And clearer still that veins of strike are panned out.
Harder still to put the impression on, and photograph or video couldn’t make
the setting more real.
One more false-feeling description: it takes time and what is grabbed and what
is left behind, from shadowless trees to awkward dumps to no less
of a graveyard just off the houses.¹
And lacking the skills that made it so, sometimes even diseased and hiding
it, in charge of plenty and wanting to keep.
Hoping for dust to settle beneath wind and each very moment to bend just a
little within it.
To summer there, and spring enough, and winter in the sharp snow.
And hard branches, and have it again just as it always was.
¹ As the first was buried as she lay. As the first was a squat cabin, made to outlast any snows, and those that wouldn’t come. And those forced-up flowers, letters of the day—who sent them?—made visible by tossing boughs, and stunningly, stunningly audible.