Another windy morning
and swarming clouds encircle
our spotlight of sun. Storm's
coming. Down the valley,
the peacock screams,
a rooster crows,
two dogs howl back
and forth, a lone truck
rumbles down the only
strip of paved road,
and a meadowlark on a fence
sings full-throated to compete
with the numerous squawkings
of the jays and all the chorusing titters
of Abbey's "Little Grey Birds."
So here we are. On a short lease,
getting shorter quickly, leaning
off the edge of this cliff,
that cliff, and the other,
under the Porcupine Rim.
A rock tumbles
from somewhere high up
the Rim, right on cue, a crack
and an echo like a rifle.