From the caprock across the canyon’s yawn
listen to the river last.
Movement on the long quiet volcano
antelope skylight the ridgeline
catch the glanced light.
With the thirty-thirty
correct windage and bullet drop
keen clicks of the turret
a stroke of luck
I could drop that strong yearling
slip fish and game via the dirt road
have meat enough for my family
till spring. But I have no rifle here
nor any desire to crush the quiet
to start the eagle from the snag
on the bank a final fall below
to lift the head of the coyote sentinel
on the east rim
to flush mergansers white flanked and frantic
from the eddies. I prefer the loud still
the clinging hope that once back
in the city’s brawl
where all lives save one are buried under rock
by the driven and the driven
I will hear the canyon witness
I will listen to the river last.