Sun on Pine

To distinguish between trace

And intention, the wayside

Hermit eschews any news,

But watches the vehicles

That come up the mesa road,

How frequently and what kind.

Past one-hundred thousand deaths,

Was the last the hermit knew.

A couple of Vietnams

Was how the headline put it

Down at the convenience store.

Up here, more and more RVs,

Fewer and fewer creatures,

Other than a surge in flies.

With lives as with deaths, with deaths

As with lives, the frequencies

Mean little without knowing

The kind. Those “two Vietnams”

Meant young, American lives,

Not counting Vietnamese.

A convertible Jaguar

Pulls alongside and coughs up

An elderly white couple

Well dressed for a country club—

They want to know directions

To the trail with the best view.

The best is right at the edge

Where the hermit likes to sit,

But there’s a fine one closer,

And they’re happy to stop there.

A few photos, and they’re off.

Good for them—about the age

Of most of this season’s dead,

But unmasked, hale, and well-fed.

How much news can anyone

Know or bear to know, choosing

To read anything but news?

That even when many die,

Others, maybe many more,

Sail on, blithely, and survive,

Even thrive. For a time. Watch

Counts and kinds. Don’t be surprised.