No Tears

I love
the high plains desert
crunch of boots
along washboard gravel roads that
slice through
between sage
piñon and prickly pear
roads to nowhere
and everywhere

my grandfather would drive
faster than I liked
kicking up great plumes
of dirt and dust
sometimes brown
sometimes grey
more often red
deep sandstone
red

where
was he going
so fast
so loud
so hard to breathe

behind then beyond
wheat fields
barley
rye
alfalfa
beyond wind dried ridge
past remains of spring hightide
where rain is a battering ram
a plow to wound the landscape
driving before it
debris of winter

it is hot today
I walk
I left the car
not really equipped
for the rocky ascent
up the back of the mesa
I left the car below

I hear the grind of grasshoppers
locusts of the high desert plains
and ancient rusty hinge
call of the redwing blackbird

I hear my own breath
ragged and too quick
it’s been too long since
I’ve taken this walk

my grandfather never touched the sage
either living or dead
the scrape against rifle butt
boot cracking down hard
on a too dry branch
klaxons to coyote
rabbit
antelope
deer

a trickle of sand
down stone behind me
rat
marmot
rattlesnake
I would welcome the rattle just now
wind in the dried grasses
a whisper
hint
memory
no more than that

quiet
it is too quiet
the whine of the highway
departing past the ridge
a plane far beyond
crop duster
chasing
grasshopper
cornborer
mosquito

there is no water here today
no brook
no stream
no river
no ocean here for thousands of years

no water here today
no tears

my heart beats
thick in my ears
hard in my chest
rich with the salty iron of life

I hear my heart
I don’t hear yours