I've left the trees behind
and so must court the sky,
its distant edge a master
of disguise that shimmers,
disappears, returns
a deeper blue or radiant
with sun-struck clouds.

Chimera, I call it,
intangible as shade
or the heat of fire.
It's buffalo chips for the hearth tonight,
the crook of the moon for light.
I close no doors against the coyote's cry,
and, sleeping, have no roof but sky.

from No Roof But Sky, published by High Plains Press. Used with permission. (Thank you, Jane and Nancy!)

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