Late Afternoon, Lower Mesa

Green plants and cars
Have life to themselves,
Almost. The mule deer
Must be wandering
Out of sight, ditto

Any late hikers.
No birds singing, though,
No shrilling chipmunks
On the defensive.
Not one raven clocks.

Out of sight, the cars,
RVs, and pickups
Blow along the road.
Winds blow down canyon.
But no bees, no flies.

The sun’s warm enough.
At this altitude,
The recent snow’s gone,
Not even a patch.
So much remains green—

Prickly pear, scrub brush
Of a dozen kinds,
Pines and junipers,
Even half-dead ones
Wearing green holly.