Poem about This, #2

It's almost quiet here,
Under the cottonwoods
Whose Entrada sandstone
Curvaceously humbles
Back to sand in their roots,
Although there is a breeze

And the rattle of flies
Frantic for anything
Holding on to moisture
Or surface calories,
Plus the much louder drones
Of occasional jets

And of four cars, so far,
Two in each direction,
Shuttling from and toward
The university's
Desert research station
About a mile from here.

Once the cars and jets pass
And the flies try elsewhere,
There is only the breeze
And the hiss of breathing,
The thump of a heartbeat
To remind a present

Observation it is
Not the landscape entire,
Not solemn entropy
Of everything wearing
Down into everything
Under the sun, but one

Crumb of nothing anchored
To something still trying,
Like flies and cottonwoods,
To push life back uphill
Before it can fall down
To other lives, like flies.