Heading south from Boulder, the tents and campervans scattered
In sandy pockets of wash, scrub, and rolling juniper-piñon,
It was fine autumn day but windy, the cottonwood leaves flying
Where the cottonwoods had gathered by the creeks,
Like the rabbit brush, jocund gold just passing peak, hints of gray.
Hunter moon rose with a light so bright in the free desert
Lacking any electric lights that it threw sharp shadows,
Revealed life lines on palms, and woke my daughter in the tent
At two a.m., "Papa it's almost sunrise. Look at the light
On the clouds!" I was terrified, waiting for the wind to say
When it would carry me away, but I did, and I saw that it was nothing
Like an actual morning, but it was hauntingly beautiful, she was right.
By tomorrow, either the sea battle Aristotle parsed and worried about
Will have been fought and lost, or it won't, or there was
Never no sea around here, no here neither, nor battles.
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