Under a canopy of an unwed heaven, I sieve
     warm air for a weather report. A Hindu fire blooms 
          in Fishlake National Forest, the wet root and lungs of

bluest-dark. Where I am camping solo, masked owlets 
     mew and welcome trespass. The strength of their silver 
          cries reminds me that all desire is like mine:

an endless hunger. In the cradle of my tired head, 
     in the caught breath of my tent — maybe the labyrinth 
          is a better metaphor for life than the maze?

The maze has one possible outcome. I was once lonely, 
     almost married. Now, hiking through glowing bark 
          of aspen hemmed to not be apart,

I step into naked light; 
     moonrise bends on skin — 
          on sable dapples of stars.