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to circle the fourplex
hawks on a February
day. Or shims of hawks,
as v-ed as a second
grader’s drawing
on a periwinkle
rectangle of sky,
a scallop of sun.

Rain at dawn on the tent fly,
the hum of an idle mosquito.  

Then another.
I pull on a headnet, turn over in my bag.

The rain stops.  
My tentmate breathes

the breath of slumber.  
I find my clothes, creep outside,

sit under a lodgepole pine
and read the gospels—all those miracles—

till rain returns
to walk across the open page.

              —Pasayten Wilderness