Night comes closer,
and the world is sand-
whipped and dry
and the elm trees bow
to the verge of breaking.
I am shedding skins
as desert things do,
and despite violent wind,
despite heat, despite
spines and barbs and
things that prick,
my edges are soft.
Above the river,
dozens of dark
winged bank swallows
dart and make praise
of the evening air
and the wild roses
spill their pink perfume—
the scent of miracle
is everywhere
and I, too,
bow to breaking.