winter song

there is a low howling here

that comes from the sun.

listen to the wind chimes

and how they’re possessed.

their hollow tones ringing through the neighborhoods

about something invisible.

look at how the trees bend and sway

as if under water

waiving in slow motion

at something invisible.

this valley is unified

by the thick red light

that paints the grasses and the cliff faces

that paints the Indian blood, the red earth.

things are stained and there’s a song about it

droning on in the background

behind the movements of our machines

and the movements of the wind splitters

the people walking over sidewalks to their lives.

we think there’s something more than walking

with the song and seeing the trees dance

but there’s not.

we think there’s something more we’ve got to do

other than feel the valley’s breath

that comes down from the red cliffs

to the winter grasses

but there’s not.