The evening has always been holier than the day,
The hush of anticipation always holier and often
Sweeter than the pealing bells of arrival. Not
Greater than, not finer than, but holier than.
Even in this desert, the afternoon is brief
And grey, with weather coming in for the holiday
And traffic heavy on the freeway a stone’s throw
Away. But down by the narrow, meandering Virgin,
The rumbling wheels and lowering rain feel still
At bay. No fish to be seen, those native species
Best glimpsed in the tanks at Redhills Desert Garden
Up in Saint George. Here and there, a raven cuts
Against the grey, but no birds sing sunset. No
Sign of the desert tortoise, no tracks of deer,
No heat-loving lizards basking and posing,
No lowing of free-range cattle down here.
What does this sterile little river bear, besides
Silt, perhaps radioactive, to deliver on her way
To rejoining the sea, with or despite the offspring
Of divinity, eroding stones this holy evening? I cup
The water in my hands and let old answers chill me.
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