Final moonslice of the year
shines here. Time has come, the year grown round.

So summarize the seasons past:

Yes, give them to me. Bring them to my park entrances, huddled and tired and poor, and let them breathe free.

But do not fear: I know they’re not yearning to breathe too free. Let them remain a little huddled. Keep them within a half-mile radius of a Ranger Station and Gift Shoppe at all times…

Upon the hem of Ajax there is sun.


Your azure deep extends toward the west

where rising tempest makes its windy run

against the valley. Mountainside, I rest…

I pledge allegiance to the rivershed of San Miguel,

and to the undersurface of mycelial network upon which we stand,

our aspen roots and minerals and water…

Today dawned heavy with potential, as

if every year before awaited grim

and gravid and momentous. I awoke

to all four of them perched upon my chest.