OPTIONAL POETRY

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.