What The World Once Was

This is what the world once was,
low wind across
dimpled grasslands,
a warm, bruised sweep
musked with
far-pressed rain,
gall oaks whistling
as air falls through them.

This is what the world once was,
a far, clear view,
long to the east,
to the blue shoulders
of the Gorge,
the river tucked there,
imperceptible,
but felt,
sensed
in the angle of
shadow.

This is what the world once was,
muffled creek silence,
the sun lying flat
on vine maple leaves,
curled bracken fern
rising, pungent,
from the mud.

This is what the world once was,
kestrel wings
beating
above lupine meadows,
field sparrows
calling
from leather leaves,
their eyes dark
as cascara berries.