World

Just beyond the road’s edge,
Opposite the trailhead,
The unfrequented side,

There’s a secondary
Level to the mesa,
A dip below eyeline

In juniper-piñon
Sprawl, with tiny meadows,
Green pockets of cacti,

Drought-tolerant grasses,
And odd patches of moss
Against the sides of rocks

That shelter the sparse snows
And hold on to shadow.
It’s not even a walk

To get to it. Just park,
And pretend you’re a deer
Melting into the trees,

And you’re there. In fact, deer
Do just that. You can see
Their flattened nests and scat.

There’s a couple of points
With breathtaking lookouts,
But don’t come here for that.

Sit for a few moments,
Minutes, maybe an hour,
Where there’s nothing special,

But somehow you’re alone,
Alone and out of doors.
Never yours, but it’s home.