Owyhee August

What’s under all this
bunchgrass

and this sand?
High, folded hills where

memory runs on
like feldspar
from footprint to ridgeline

and no sudden creek,
reflecting my image

but deeper than I imagine,
pulls me back out.

  Is there only this one
  hard release?

Only mud rivers cracked
and warped, rock doves

lifting in waves
from hundred foot cliffs,

under morning sun
until rock drops
off to nowhere

and the nothing
starts to speak.

Out here you see it all
in stark relief.

Hear it: