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Today, the birds and emotions are blown off course
underneath, the weight of dry ground
my stubble field of a face in the morning
mirror is a rumor spread by fate ⸺
love has a weird way of acting cantankerously
for no earthly reason, it belongs to its own
flotillas, uses the same migrant crossings
the same felicitations as the wind.
We can be hard contracts, stranded without
an inkling in our estranged country, America’s
least alarming cloisters. Or, we can exude the
ambrosia of a Colorado cantaloupe which we
nurture in the fields come spring. Are you getting
an abundance of me?  It’s a rhetorical question.
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I can't get enough of you, the harvest of you
the blue twisting river that flows from
the heart of your high country down into the 
green celestial underground of my mind’s eye.
Without love it’ll be winter on all the things
we set aside, the sky will recant much of its border
bluster, magnitude  and guile     if I didn’t know
better I’d assume we were that cauliflower
cloudscape, or two Chihuahuan desert seeds  
in need of rain, a river to cross instead of mercilessly
human with our birds for eyes and the medicine of
shared sunrises that for no earthly reason
                                                   startle the heart.