A pale moon sinks beyond the waves
that roll backward, out to sea.
Then dawn arrives, blue and still
and silent where the sound should be.
Sun too bright illumines day
with artificial gaiety,
tricking us with summertime,
though winter in reality.
Then stillness yields to scorching squalls
blowing in from desert plains—
searing sage and greasewood stems
that threaten to burst into flames.
Noontime is no longer mute—
the dog’s bark, red-tailed hawk’s cry
wallow in the eastern wind
howling through the sullen sky.
Palm trees slapping on the wall
bend and bow from gusts and gales.
In slow motion, pine trees sway,
scornful of the upstart swells.
Later, when the night returns,
and moon climbs at end of day,
the winds are banished to the east,
like ghosts returning to their graves.
