Wednesday, December 19, 2018




For weeks it was our weather,

Clouding the air for days,

A fine bright storm that billowed

Over barns and feedlots,

Making all the livestock shine,

The horses one color.

And like luck I wanted it to last,

To have it there each morning

When I milked, the stalls

And stanchions shining,

The udders all dust with light.


Afterward everything hung in perfect balance. Light and

dark, heaven and hell. We weighed our words carefully and

never went outside. We just wandered the house, one desolate

room after another, afraid anything we'd say, even the

slightest comment, would bring the day crashing to the

floor. And so finally we settled on no words at all, and lost

ourselves in little things — watering the plants, straightening

the books on the bookshelves — both of us wondering how

long it could last. It was like some great scale, so fragile, so

delicately calibrated, even the dust was a factor, could tip

the day one way or another.


Here on this ridge

The only color

Left is you,

And soon you too will fade.

The spruce have long

Returned to birch,

and the birch

Are quietly

Turning to snow.

Robert Hedin
At the Great Door of Morning  
Copper Canyon, 2017