.
Coming to cottonwoods, an
orange rockshelf,
and in the gully
an edging of stream willows,
I made camp
and turned by mule loose
to graze in the dark
evening of the mountain.
Drowzed over the coals
and my loneliness
like an inner image went
out and shook
hands with the willows,
and running up the black scarp
tugged the heavy moon
up and over into light,
and on a hill-thorn of sage
called with the coyotes
and told ghost stories to
a night circle of lizards.
Tipping on its handle
the Dipper unobtrusively
poured out the night.
At dawn returning, wet
to the hips with meetings,
my loneliness woke me up
and we merged refreshed into
the breaking of camp and day.
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