Return (for my father)

Over the terra cotta earth 
your truck like a cleft-foot goat 
grazes homeward. 
The down of trees in the hills 
reads the dogma of winter coming, 
engines winding down and wearing out 
even as they whirr, 
and the shadows of hawks swooping 
overhead, a dissolution. 

Riding, a monotony 
easily accustomed to, 
little altered but the tread 
in the tires, lines scored 
in your face, how your affections 
perceive silence. 

Your heart’s mewling 
urges return. 
Heard in the hushed hours, 
the moan of homeward. 
Things running down, a doom, 
but your turning back 
into the still of a faraway sun 
needs no reputation.