A nap in the open car, doors wide, beside
The green waters. The aspens, just come
Into leaf four months ago already hinted
Yellow. A few migratory waterfowl, one
Of which looked to be, startlingly, an actual
Black swan, drew their arrowing wakes.
It couldn't have been a black swan. Wrong
Intersection of changes for such a thing.
When the thunder dropped out of a cloud
That hadn't looked particularly ominous,
An unseen bird started up a squeaky chirping.
Down in the desert, the day was hot
And ordinary, and although the stone cliffs
Were world-class beautiful and drawing
Crowds even on an ordinary Monday, all
That milling about felt bland, so many people
Being the default mode of the current world.
At the far end of the small reservoir, where
The gates of the hideaway summer estates
Were already padlocked for the year, a dead
End at one gate made for an empty retreat,
No human passing, no cattle lowing, no one
To turn aside for or nod at or wish good day.
The small hours of a summer in mountains,
The small hours of a life, the peace of slower
Change, when time expanded sluggishly
Like a river gone glassy at the lip of the falls.
There was nothing to make of this, this
Dry thunder and bright, pulsing bird call, this
Green silk scarf drawn through the eye.
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