The Waning Year

Among the waxless,
Waning’s hard to spot,
For a while, at least.

The whole was never
That special, that hot.
At the road’s wayside,

Sprawled gravel’s gravel,
And it’s hard to say
Less than yesterday.

Still, even gravel
Wears away. Pebbles
Vanish in the grass,

Spread their way downslope,
Get caught by flash floods.
Some wayside gravel

Will end up in seams
Of mountains, in floors
Of ancient seabeds.

They’ll still be pebbles,
Unremarkable.
Here on the shoulder

Of a desert road
Headed down mesas,
This gravel’s thinning,

Nevertheless. Some
County dump truck
Will spread fresh crushed rock

Sooner or later,
But for now you’re parked
On a waning year.