In the dark times
Will there also be singing?
Desert morning, the stars
have wheeled in their arcs
to stand in their appointed doorways,
the coyotes return to their cubbyholes.
The great horned owl on the light pole
sees the neighborhood, sees, if he wants to,
how I stand shoeless on the cool sand,
lucky cuss, wingless bird that I am.
In the dark times there will be singing
and I, in a forgotten crevice in the universe,
will spread my arms and inhale deep, enormous.