wyoming . . . . .

The stark gray branches piled thick
like pick-up sticks.
Do dead trees feel the wind?

The river talks incessantly
and never takes a breath.
I wonder how it sleeps.

The breeze cools one side of my neck
and the sun beams down on my back
warming my thick black sweater.

A green and white nylon tie around one trunk
flapping like a feather,
marking it for some purpose.

The soft gaze of a deer in the distance,
brown and unmoving.
watching me from afar.

Dropping Keys by Hafiz

The small man
Builds cages for everyone
He
Knows.
While the sage,
Who has to duck his head
When the moon is low,
Keeps dropping keys all night long
For the
Beautiful
Rowdy
Prisoners.