Light on Dirt

Intense, clear, high-altitude
Spring sunlight on soft, grey dust

Along the way, in a time
When few sightseers will climb

To this height. The reservoir
Is slushy, impossible

To fly or ice fish. The world
Is reopening, a bit,

But most of us are wary,
If not appropriately

Terrified. The second wave,
Maybe a third and a fourth

All wait—those military
Metaphors don’t work so well—

But weather metaphors might.
The first storm surge has passed us

Here in the southwest desert
Of stunned North America.

The nativists are getting
Restless. There are some pick-ups

With flag plates, “In GOD We Trust,”
Nosing around high dirt roads,

Between the snow, ice, and slush,
As if they were on patrol,

Suspicious, as if they must.
They want to see what they hunt.

They suspect the existence
Of the plague could be a hoax,

An enemy’s trick, a hex.
No leaves, no butterflies yet,

And not many singing birds
This high. Just geese on the ice

And that sunlight on the dirt,
That incredible sunlight,

Like a large hand on our heads,
Shining warning from the dust.