Crossing

Sun filtering through the loosely woven
blanket of the sky—thick and gray.
The yellow is falling down

in streaks that slant and recover
over miles of washed Sonoran—
endless flats before the immediate rise

of mountains. The weather
gathers and pulls itself across the sky
like a wounded traveler and I

would not ask to be taken in. The rain
drags and I would not speak too freely
of death, knowing so little, building

strength and losing it, the clouds
open. Someone has lain down to
rest here and was unable to rise.

— Natalie Peeterse