The valley sheds its hazy shawl at night,

becomes an electric incantation.

Inside, moths flicker in the stairwell light—

pale, dust-soft. The horse kicks her water trough

and underground, the bones of long-dead dogs

whittle thinner every year. Aspens quake

their silver fans, wind rings the tone-deaf chimes

and the hollow in my chest collapses,

a little. I’m tired and getting older

in this desert that did feel like home, once.

In spring, the sagebrush will powder its hair

saffron, and maybe things won’t seem so bleak

when the fields blush green for a week or two,

and thunder rips the placid sky in sheets.