Sixteen in the shade, but a high open sky.
Some places, the sun doesn’t go anymore–
There’s snow from days ago on the butte’s
burn scar. An owl landed on the roof
but didn’t call– a weighty presence,
waiting overhead. The nights get deep
and silent here, the withered scrub
brush doesn’t stir, no wind, the lake
is static, stretching out like expectation,
a hole in the landscape, of unspoken depth.