I Load Rocks While Raven Rides the Wind

I blade the dirt road, pull up rocks,

lift them into the tractor's bucket,

and dump them down in the rock pile,

blade the road smooth down through camp

across Lone Pine Creek, and the loop below the lodge.

Fierce mountain wind blows down a big pine tree,

blows a picnic table against a tree and shatters the table,

blows the door off the latrine in tent site two.

Raven watches me every day.

Some days, the wind blows.

I rake, lift, load rocks,

cut up a blown-down tree,

build a picnic table,

repair the latrine in tent site two,

and watch Raven.

A smooth, rockless road is necessary, Raven,

so I can plow the road clear of snow next winter.

Raven never loads rocks in cold wind,

never noises up the day with loud tractor,

roaring chain saw

never makes explanations for existence.

Raven glides above me on lazy wings

quarters away from the wind,

soars black above silver water in Pine Creek,

soars black above grass of the meadow,

in the cold wind growing green.