At dawn, the body burns.
What has been its moist
red ground for decades is
going to disappear. Desert sage—
cut, dried, prepared to bristle,
sear, smoke— incense for the sun.

Outside, the hoot of an owl—
the sun rises. The mice relax.
After the rains, the fertile land
will be given up. Nests of songbirds
harvested, gone. Tree of the last virgin
offered up— the flower of her mother.

The bunch grasses of all the lovers,
offered up in the tule fog of morning.