Dillon Pinnacles, Thanksgiving 2021
Broken skin of ozone strips us
to short sleeves, short pants. Old language
on the signage points to richer rivers, meat
in the hills, time-dense stone. Then, to silence. Below,
the reservoir wanes. A day moon hangs on. Water gone,
the banks bloom striation. Some unseen
magician waves and leaves behind an abstract
painting—silt, algae, twisting turquoise water lines.
If grizzlies still lived here, my father says,
I bet that’s where they’d go. He points
to a swatch of white on the horizon,
a quilt thrown over a crook in the San Juans.
On its top is a bear shaped stitch or
a rock shaped stitch, a tear where snow’s
begun to melt. Simple sunspot or ancient wintering monster,
the world in past or present tense.
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