e could meet in the high desert.
Incense cedar, red fir, and white pine
started here – in fissures rooted
in change and digestible dirt.

We could walk the light
and shade of marked trails,
discuss the grief of every autumn aspen
reluctant to release its green.

You might mention the optimism
of downed trees repurposed by
wood-boring beetles. We could pause
in the past’s difficult shadows,

listen to the imagined echo of Hokan spoken
which is and is no more – and continue.