At Thacker Pass

At Thacker Pass, by Rob Lewis

Tilting sea of sagebrush,
      ancient fragrance rising.
Circular distances
weaving baskets 
     of stone, time, silence.

The windmind
where you wandered 
          before your name

before the dials
    and settings
    of Progress
  closed and ordered
    your 
         gates.

	*

Dusty shoes outside the tent 
   which shifts in dying wind.
   Sitting in the doorway
                   far ridge at dusk
            looking back at you
	
    and then you are there
         and all points between
  spread open
        flying the widening moment

   freed of words.

	*

Distant headlights, crawling somewhere. 
A mile off? Seven? A wagon train?
An electric car?
A boat lost at sea
   sinking in its track.

	*

The road once was trail
   for Paiutes on horseback,
the land side to side
planted with prayers.

Now it is on a schedule,
   caught in economic 
         crosshairs

    (exposed, sky whispering
         calling water
for Her birds.)

Counting 	

5…
4…
3…
2…
1….

Blow it up for lithium. 

	*

In a room 
in a building 
in a mind
in a belief
in an economic plan
   
everything is stuck.

There, The Branching 

          ends.