The ridge road takes the ridgespine every way
It turns. It threads the granite venebrae
And old. wind-dwarfed ponderosas that twist

Tonight in the Southwest
Sadness is disappearing

 

Into disappearance
The leaves let go

Father says the worst thing is a windless December night with no moon, no stars, just snowlight glowing in through the windows, lighting the path to the spring house.

Behind the chains and sawblades on the north wall of the shop, I found the packrat’s nest, his fetishes: