A sonnet by Thomas Davis
The moon rose over Grand Mesa’s dark blue rim
dark red, a presence hanging ominously vast
above our heads, the hills around us, dim
from fading light, now eerie, light recast
into a land of shadows burned with burnished red
that made the piñon’s stillness bristle gloom
and rocks elongate as they shined and bled
across a landscape rising toward the moon.
We walked, hand clasped in hand, our love intense,
into the weirding light, our senses shocked
by how the day had disconcerted sense,
transmuted time, the spirit of the rocks.
We walked in silence as the red, red moon
compressed to gold, then silver, a cryptic rune.