Before the Ink Dries

What I see from here, lying
in the hammock, is the knob
across the canyon, pine tree covered
and seeming close as a house.

Haystack Peak stands behind it.
The clouds pushing northeastward
lined up level at the bottom dark,
bursting upward and curling white
as waves. Blue sky everywhere else.
The wind picking up in the afternoon
and shaking the oak leaves.

Looking at the farthest horizon
for perspective does not help me
understand my feelings or who I am.

This morning cool enough to use
a blanket, now, in my underwear,
leaned back, writing about a moment
that is over before the ink dries.