The click of walking sticks on gravel roads
With crunchy boot steps and determined strides,
A meditative cadence, balanced load;
New landscapes painting the absence inside.

What message in eagles, staid pairs on limbs,
In rocks, cows, and songbirds leading the way,
In storied arroyos and hot, mad winds,
In tree shapes and harvested grapes and hay?

Like the squirrel quick for dinner scamp’ring,
I chase your bidding, each grain imparted,
Hunting for scraps in deep footprints puddling,
My compass, my pace, like husks, discarded.

But when the owl calls, now my doubts abate.
I’m content, I say. Then hurry and wait.