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.