The clouds come low
down the butte

the tree line
smeared blue

the rest given
up to sky.

It may snow,
but isn’t as cold

as it looks,
but maybe later on–

the lake dead
still, the dog

won’t eat,
nothing moves

in the sagebrush,
no birds, a lack

that makes
this quiet

so disquieting–
we all wait

for something,
it’s holding us up.