I doubt the robbers thought their roost
Would hide them well forever, for life.
But there must have been that magic interval
Before the posse's hooves could be heard
Clopping down the canyon shadows, days
And nights when the calm was as natural
As a satisfied beast after a meal and a sleep.
I understood that interval myself. It's not
Something that can be conjured or kept,
But when it descends, the Hunter rising
In the onset autumn sky, leftover lightning
Signing the silhouettes of far mesas, moon
Poking about at the end of its invisible leash
Lengthening ever so slowly over these eons,
It feels like the embrace you always wanted
And never could keep then, either, and that
Is the whole of it. Every so often what goes
On is tender enough, placid enough, safe
Enough for you to wish it were not going,
Although you know that's how it came.
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