Quiet, Habit-Forming Days

Junipers, greasewood, barbed-wire.
What kind of country is this?
Don’t answer that. It’s empty,

By comparison with towns
Of any kind—unsealed sand,
No hiking trails or campgrounds—

But it’s as full as the world
In all its points is always
Full, although things keep vanishing

As other things appear. Deer,
For instance, and one pronghorn,
And a lot of heavy beef,

Plus the usual pickups
In the distance, now and then,
Roadrunner-huge plumes of dust.

The day has a narrative,
Or would if someone were here
To narrate it. It brightens,

Heats up, gets very hot, then
Starts to dim and cool again.
The sand and the junipers

Turn to face the stars again.
It goes on like this. Aging,
Storybook lives don’t change it,

Don’t change the order of it,
That is. The world has habits.
Habits aren’t quite narratives.