A Red-tailed hawk on a power pole
surveys the last day in a year
riddled with deceit.
There is no truth
like his, with the fanning
of the primaries as he claims
his portion of the light
on a day too warm for the season.
Beside a slow running creek
the cottonwoods change color
while higher than cactus
and mesquite
the air on the plateau is clear
where big trucks roll
and a lone tree is decked
out in tinsel, hope
and stars.
We’ve reached the altitude
for ravens, with dry
earth pressed against the sky. No
stopping now:
a valley
waits for rain,
the minutes tick away,
traffic signs point toward
the future, and bumper stickers
expire at midnight.
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