Slicing between cows, cliffs, drought-dead trees
in Kansas, rocks calve like Arctic glaciers forever
sliding down to fill up
gullies, their own crevasse. Slip to sift
onward to lose themselves in the next freshet
caught up in some sea buried in their own layers:
sedimentary, sedentary, silent.
Raindrops tease, dimple dust. Day begins
to steam, but then the rainbow buds
from western hills, the right bow rising higher,
clarifying colors until it breaks free, doubles for
a moment, and then absorbs. I think what Noah
must’ve felt, having ridden the proverbial waves.
Thank you, Gifters, I speak into the wind, unthinking.
I have no need to know their names or religion.