Photo by Carter Gowl

Back Forty: Manifesto

Some days clouds drift over the canyon,
horsetails, bits of high cotton.
In the afternoon, then,
the sky quickens, tumbles —
a dark creek crashing down the mountain.

Other days from ridge to ridge
there’s only a high, dry, guileless blue,
and you can fairly hear
the meadow grass breathe. You could say,

I have lived well. You could say, I have lived
well and anyway been troubled. You could say, Come evening,
deer browse the meadow fringe.

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