Three miles into the canyon
Allen Springs flows over rocks and sand,
past sweetgrass and pine
where owls stand guard,
green eyes in shimmering dark;
a wolf, sand dimpled under silent steps,
lifts its nose to a scent, calls out to her tribe.
By morning: mist –
the ground covering dunes with its breath.
The last prey escapes one more night.
I toss sagebrush then wood to whet the embers.
It seems sometimes everything opens up,
a fan painted with stars,
hills and valleys unfold into plains, mountains;
until distance loses its scale,
and the spring, the owl, the wolf, the stars
disappear under a bluing sky.