In those mountains, time filled
one bush with castor beans,
another with wild roses…
Death was something distant
that made a buzzard stir
its whirlpool in the sky.

By a tree, I found the deer
hunters lost—a flower
of ants in the bullet hole
and a root held its leap.

There sunlight came down
a trail and green nature
reddened at the tip.
Yucca struck at the wind,
turned dull and rusted
in the fall. Lizards
split the rocks, then ran;
snakes passed and left their clothes.

Below, a little town,
like a tumor, began to spread.

1960

 = Sarah Kobrinsky