At Dusk
Barfoot and
the sun slows into gold;
the cottonwood
tufts and dandelion
seeds turn into
specs of shimmer.
The miners
and panhandlers never
needed to
rush to California or
to the vast
Yukon. All the gold is here,
glowing on
this slope in the foothills
of the Cascades.
Their hands rough
from their
labor, their faces lined
with worry;
here, the only labor
is to watch barefoot
in the dry
summer grass
and wait for the sun
to slant and
tilt the earth into
precious metal.
They would
scramble then,
arms reaching
upward for
their fortunes
like the
vines of the
blackberry brambles
lusting
for the last
piece of sunlight.
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