Dry

Dry
For Edward Michael McDonnell

At seven thousand feet
life dries and cracks, like
old lumber behind the shed,
mountain grasses brown and flattened, tinder crisp,
sand drifting in the wind,
down our dirt road,
like lines in Dad’s face
at eighty-seven.

Dry is how I like it.
Just enough air and moisture
for a few of us.
Our sky is empty and I can see further.
Dry is empty and
more is possible.
Dry is where we are all headed.

My life changes with me, slowly.
A boy turns into a man,
moist turns to dry,
flesh to dust.

Breezes circle into a spinning devil,
stirring the prairie, leaving it bare, empty and dry.
Behind, snowfields hang on wise peaks.