Mary-Austin Klein ,  More Mesa Morning  Oil on duralar mounted on board 8 x 8"

Mary-Austin KleinMore Mesa Morning
Oil on duralar mounted on board
8 x 8"

Crickets stopped scratching their names
in last evening’s dark husk,

the false summer over as half of the earth
lurched sudden and blind into winter.

Then terrible noises all night.
Foxes, for certain, fierce hunger

on slight slender feet, but also
the singular cries of their prey

as the hinge between seasons gave way,
unshuttered the broken,

bright, cold of this day.
Still, those terrible sounds in the night.

Some I heard; most were too far away.
No switch to turn off what’s caught in the ear,

in the wind, no naming this dread,
just the gift of more light to see what’s so cold.

Even the comforting slap of my black rubber boots
snapping back on my calves

seems a clock counting down, as I walk
to the still-flowing creek, that may well be

poisoned, or maybe not poisoned, or maybe,
this morning, not yet.


Hayden Saunier