Like a fast-moving fog,
or a prairie fire
coming straight at my camp.
But in the San Luis Valley
the white cloud streamers
are powdered alkali,
lifted by wind from dry lake beds.
Ducks are not flying, nor the harriers
that peer at decoys for signs of life,
not red-winged blackbirds nor noisy wrens
that shoulder through dense reeds.
Only the crows ride the salty clouds
slipping and soaring,
only the crows,
because they can.
(A quasi-poem in lieu of a blog entry about the recent duck hunt. Weathered-out of Blanca Ponds again, but not entirely empty-handed.)