Thousand Springs

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It snowed yesterday for a moment
            but it was an idea 
                        that didn’t catch on — 

whiteness, 
a blanket for our sins — 

                        not for us, 
                                    I’m afraid. 

Those blank clouds stood 
                        back today though 
                        and ringed 
                        the city, 

and the sun came out 
to talk with car hoods 
            and window glass. 

It’s almost evening now 
            and there is just a gold line 
                        between two gray sheets 
                        in the west— 

that space between two bodies 
            not truly together.

Even the lowest things cast a shadow 
                        at this hour 
            and sun has blood in its light; 
            embers crawl over 
                                    everything, 
                        and trees electrify 
                                    into momentary torches. 

I stare west 
            at that gold stitch, 
                        and hope the clouds don’t shift 
                        too soon. 

*

In the direction of that light 
            is Thousand Springs, 
                                    its various waters. 

Like chandeliers, like teeth, like gutters, like wells,
            they appear 
                        straight from unlikely rock. 

Under yesterday’s snow, 
            the canyon was a field 
                        of dark eyes and mouths, 
                                    black, braided ropes 
                                    running down walls,

uncovered, untouched. 

The stones wore mantillas, 
            fall gardens became 
                        white hives, 

                        but the water kept coming 
                                    up, black and cold. 

It is this steadiness that I love, 
                        this blackness. 

I love darkness’s refusal 
            to be covered, 
            its simple persistence, how we can sometimes 
                        make a comfortable bed 
                        in its chilly teeth 

Even in snow, 
            even under light, 

                        we are a mapped canyon: 
                        dark spots amid the white. 

*

The sun shorts out, 
            fire in the trees turns dull, 
                                                            disappears.

Clouds move in, 
            and night comes 
            to lay blankets across fields, 
                        to fill streets 
                        and hide 
                                    the space between bridges 
                                                            and the water below. 

North of us, 
            the Lost River bows its head 
                        under the sand, 

            works its way 
            ten feet at a time 
            east. 

That water emerges 
            in a thousand ways. 
                        comes up 
            beautiful and black 
            to mingle with white snow 
                        and light.