Dry Tributary, Alum Creek

On the edge of a washout 
that has not flowed in decades
three creatures stumble

Stammering magpies swerve
revelations of life on barren
stone plumages, where even

Sagebrush grows shorter
shoots -- onward, less word
than watchful feet, dipping 

Pen toes in sand to write
the clouds above the
broad brimmed hat

Erase the future with
the trembling heat and
as for the past, this

Infant was asleep