To Make Humans Stop and Stare

Summers you scarcely notice
Them and can hardly tell them
Apart—stubby, scrubby shrubs,

Groundcover on the mesas
And middle slopes you wouldn’t
Dignify by naming woods.

Come late September, they flare,
First, the bigtooth maple, pink
As cherry-cranberry drinks,

Then the rusty gambel oaks,
Looking bronzed, ochre, or scorched.
The aspens are prettier,

Up higher, glorious, gold
Gone fast. Everyone knows that.
The cottonwoods churn butter

Near creeks and irrigation
Later down in the valleys,
But first, it’s these squat ones’ turn