A red hot-air balloon, omen of misfortune, floated
Up from the chill dawn suburbs by the freeway through St. George,
Like a bubble of blood in the haze. Why omen of misfortune?
I don't know. It has seemed that way to me, seemed that days
When I spy the red sphere drifting over the morning traffic lanes
Turn out less than well, not to say unhappy, for me. Do I think
There's any concerned angel trying to warn me away? Not likely.
Possibly no human has ever had supernatural allies
Although we all crave them, almost all bully and pretend.
Possibly this world of maya is entirely illusion and delusion,
But there is no more real world besides. It never ends.
At most, at best, it never was. Or maybe not. I am not
Such a monster as to be apart from nature. Any creek
In the desert is life on a thread. The threads' confluences
Connect in quiet ravines not far from the roaring highway
Under that balloon that may or may not mean anything.
It all depends on what people do, what humans have to say.
I went down later that afternoon, past the sign for "HOPE,"
And I waited by a confluence, and I listened, and I hoped.
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