On Past Dying

White lichen spotting the rocks
In the dry wash makes basalt
Boulders look like monuments
Speckled in pigeon droppings,

But there are no pigeons here,
Only the community
Of birds that need piñon nuts—
Scrub jays, titmice, solitaires.

It’s not the prettiest place
In the grand national park,
But it’s not ugly either.
It’s a reminder—sandstone,

Basalt, odd pieces of quartz,
In all sizes, from sand grains
Sifting wavelet dunes to stones
The size of bedrooms tumbled

Down from their homes on the cliff—
This is a living surface,
Down to every speck of dirt,
And even if the lichen

Really were dung, that would be
Living, too, churning with lives
More numerous than humans
Churning in your city blocks.

Creatures, it’s not life you need
To worry about on Earth.
Life’s thriving. But look how all
You lives yourselves—you lizard,

With a pine nut in your mouth
Bigger than your head, you patch
Of emerald moss still clinging
To one rock’s shade, you dry grass

Recovering from the last
Flash flood to rip this channel—
All, all of you—fight so hard
To push life past your dying.