Toll
The wind rolls free for the taking.
Jack pines complain, clouds curdle.
The sun is a cardboard cutout,
and we are silhouettes on stalwart legs,
waiting for the bell to toll.

Listening to Crickets
Crickets lean into the desert evening.
A cactus-like song soft and sharp.
Pleasing to the ear, grating on the nerve,
until silence unfolds over them, shade at noon -
or a ghost flower blooming in the night.