The hills looked thinned to linen,

sun-bleached

folded into forms 

they were never meant to hold.

​

Cedar mulch stacked in ranges -

heat lifting off in faint veils,

the ground giving back

what it couldn't keep.

​

Living things contracting,

speed sharpening its edges

quiet slipping out of sight -

and in us,

the same narrowing.

​

Flooded banks sag,

roots loosening 

life wires withdrawing

from a slow-failing circuit.

​

Urgency taking more room;

patience

reduced to trace.

​

The land keeps its long memory,

steady in the drift,

holding a narrow opening

where regard might root.

​

For the land.

For ourselves.

For what comes after.