Scarlet penstemons line the sunny side of the hills
where we have stopped, and in a snap
we slide a memory into our cameras.
Or phones, actually;
We never remember our cameras anymore.
Quarantine is an insidious device.
I am watching my granddaughter grow, crawl, stand
And take her first steps on the television
So instead, we drive.
Our family is pinned together with staples
Made of wi-fi and video
These are the signs of the times.
There is work to be done and only the risky can do it
The apocalypse is slow and stealthy
I grew up fearing The Bomb.
We were afraid of the wrong thing.
The real devil is not held on warships
It burns in lungs and hearts and muscles
And passes from friend to friend.
But there are still asters and sunflowers on the roadside
And Monkeyflower by the stream beds;
Columbine growing in the shade
And aspen that grow beneath an impossible summit.
There has always been and every summer
They rise again with hope.
There will come a day when there is nothing left of us.
The fools of humanity will decide our own fate
By stubbornness or folly or chance.
Either way, we have our numbered days
But canyons have been pushed
from grasslands to dizzying heights
The rocks have watched life come and go
They have buckled under pressure to grow taller
But they still stand
They still hold the columbine and lupine,
Ferns and aspens lend them their summer clothes
And when we are gone, they will tell new mountains
Once, there were people here.