I sit outside on the front porch
Once in a while, on a late-lit afternoon
I come here
To look east across a reminding sky
Rarely telling east or west,
Such is the gift of ancient lakes
Reflecting mysteries,
Covenant of geology and sky
That no one can ever really know, since
No one sky here can hold the land’s light
Of any day much less the past
As the sky surrounds,
Pinks arrive, floating along stretches
Of trees’ limbs and illusions,
Rising on the fade of
Horizon; southeast giving to
A coming dark
Bird song, immense quiet, a
Sudden slash of rain awakening dry land,
Watering a thirsty latency of
Scent, bursting loamy,
Bursting fresh now into promise,
This late spring.
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