She might have been dispatched by ghosts to announce their munificence.
She brooded over the West Temple, then the neighborhood
Of the Anasazi Plateau. She rumbled a little and advanced
Her dove-grey, thickly feathered breast over town and the Watchman,
Threw me one sharp glance, then retreated again into white towers.
I knew what her graciousness and grumbling indicated. A new month
On the Roman calendar, possibly the last, and it was a gift
That I should still be witnessing these acts of the past
Raising fresh monuments of fine skies, a gift praising itself
For using its own resources to keep me in good weather
A little while longer who should have been long gone by now.
Last night, a light that could have been a low-flying, leisurely meteor
Or an isolated sidearm twirl of ball lightning, blue, fell over my shoulder
Out of a quietly starlit sky. Today, my daughter went to the library.
Tomorrow or tomorrow, whenever tomorrow's good and yesterday,
The inscriptions of the storm that were never pronounced today
Will be read from the rocks that themselves can have no memories,
Neither for the good nor for the calamity a calm commands.
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