The Earth is a gray patchwork today;
the air weighs more
than the land. A few blades of sunlight
descend from the clouds
and sharpen themselves on the desert
foothills. It’s a large bird
tiny bird kind of day
when each drop of tomorrow’s rain
contains a hummingbird and
the shadows overhead
are carved to match hawk with hawk
from street lamp to the claw
that opens up the sky.
                        

The wind trips on its way down the trail
and cannot brake. Now it’s sliding
where the slope is steepest
with no way to slow itself.
It shaves the needles
 
from each saguaro in its way
and strips mesquite limbs bare. It’s cold
and getting colder
the closer that it comes
to the paths tying trees to the golf course
and back yards to
strip malls, where waste paper believes
 
it can fly fast enough
to escape. But the pace of the world
just increases. The freeways break
into a gallop and an icy light
slides from the sky
 
while memories freeze
on their way through the mind.
The morning’s moon issued fair warning
when the mockingbirds passed
 
through its chalky circle
on their way back down
from a night fluffing out their subtle grays
 
and stripping the wings from dragonflies.
                        

The hummingbird now still
and perched on the moment he lives in
is the warm heart
of a cold day, on which the four peaks
visible from far away
hold their offering of snow
to the gods. A long and ancient trail
leads from here to where
people didn’t need a name in order
to exist; it was enough
to read the stars for directions.
Their footprints are indelible
and the bones from their last meal
shine in moonlight.
On days like today
the cold light brings back the past
to the window screen
through which the view is of
the coyote who discovered
this street after centuries
in the sky, waiting
as only the wild can wait
for the frozen edge to melt.