November 26

by C

comments 2

Sixteen in the shade, but a high open sky.
Some places, the sun doesn’t go anymore–

There’s snow from days ago on the butte’s
burn scar. An owl landed on the roof

but didn’t call– a weighty presence,
waiting overhead. The nights get deep

and silent here, the withered scrub
brush doesn’t stir, no wind, the lake

is static, stretching out like expectation,
a hole in the landscape, of unspoken depth.

OPTIONAL POETRY