Mark this day for the mourning dove you hear but don’t see,
for deep purple camas and bright spring beauty,
For yellow warblers flashing past a metal barn where shadows
lean, and trucks list and grow old.
Mark this day for its collision of blue breeze and cloudbank,
for a thousand craggy sisters, their crooked and mossy arms
Bending down to keep you company on this cinnamon log
where your pen bleeds to the tap, tap of rain.