The air here stinks with raunchy, hot freshness
in our high, dry forest of fir and pine.
For cumulus clouds we have mottled tufts
of shadow and our water would burn fast
into vapor if only we’d brought some.
The polychrome riot of lands where you dwelt
visits these hills in a lesser palette,
a high earthen rainbow of browns.
Here the freeze babies may jog forever,
Padding alongside their heavy-heeled men.
They give no thought to chill. No meals to finish here. The joggers sip thin wind.
Here once a year we make peace, the old lovers,
here, only now, mostly safe from each other.