What The World Once Was

This is what the world once was, 
low wind across 
dimpled grasslands, 
a warm, bruised sweep 
musked with 
far-pressed rain, 
gall oaks whistling 
as air falls through them. 

This is what the world once was, 
a far, clear view, 
long to the east,  
to the blue shoulders 
of the Gorge, 
the river tucked there,  
imperceptible, 
but felt, 
sensed 
in the angle of 
shadow. 

This is what the world once was, 
muffled creek silence,  
the sun lying flat 
on vine maple leaves, 
curled bracken fern 
rising, pungent, 
from the mud. 

This is what the world once was, 
kestrel wings 
beating 
above lupine meadows, 
field sparrows 
calling 
from leather leaves, 
their eyes dark 
as cascara berries.