Mesa Climbing October

A steady, soft wishing
Like the ghost of a stream,
Like waterless water,

Gold aspens are quaking,
Hissing, half singing
In continuous breeze.

Any sound that’s almost
What it isn’t, almost
Exactly what’s missing

From itself—these dry leaves
Like rushing water,
The cries of coyotes

In long, wordless complaints,
The poet who’s praying
To nothing for nothing—

Has a secret to keep
Not really a secret,
Since this can’t mean a thing.