Thea Gavin
COTTONWOOD BLUES
Somewhere along Highway 395In the pasture over west—
when cottonwood shimmer fills the air
the lizard in me wants to rest
up on a silvered fence rail; there,
twitchless between red dirt and sky,
I’d blend into the wind-carved wood,
let the dark birds circle, try
not to blink until the hood
of stretching shadow catches me
open-mouthed in the hay-green breeze—
looming blue mountain gravity
draws down the sun, darkens the leaves.
–from Rattle #30, Winter 2008
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