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Beneath the roaring of the sky's voices,
Lie forty secrets in the bosom of the earth,
A geography of constricting memories,
Each one a story, postmarked with pain and mirth.

On the lynchet, a coyote sings to the night,
Disturbing the cloud-garlands, strewn like beads,
A melody fraught with raw emotions,
A soundtrack to the donkey-work of tending to needs.

The day is a pinch of salt, sharp, and justly felt,
A piece of synched time, wound tight as a snare,
Every moment is an embroidery stitch,
In the fabric of life, threads caught in the wear.

Between a river's rush and a mountain's still,
I find my pastime - a lonely scribe's quill.
For each word I etch is a coyote's howl,
Echoing in canyons of silence, until
the echo returns, a thought's reaffirmation,
Like a lover's gaze, a tender affirmation.

In the waltz of words, let us not disturb,
The dance of quiet moments, often unobserved,
Even if the dance is slow, the steps unsure,
It is ours - a dance rightfully deserved.