My grandpa loudly swore while I
watched what was behind pass by.
He drove intently through the years
now gone, each with an alibi.

​

I descend from the men of stone and walking,
men who labored to haul the rock from canyons,
men who argued with sons and knew their whiskey,
men of departure.

Skeptics see sun-baked shaggy shrubs,
annoyances to be uprooted,
gnarled bushes with a pungent scent.

I watch the hush before late clouds
push in to you, before wide sky

is cut with charcoal bands that wrap
you in rushed breath of coming storms.

Orange poppies lean in the rain.