“A herd of pronghorn loiters near Gunnison.”

I continue to not like that high country autumn cottonwood light, but I finally got a shot of this little herd of pronghorn, which figures prominently in “To Be Continued (Ars Poetica),” a poem that has been published in Pemmican and more recently in Manifest West: Eccentricities of Geography.

So here – a bit of bonus context.

To Be Continued (Ars Poetica)

I expected more from the end of the world. But the

sun came up the following morning. A herd of
pronghorn loiters near Gunnison.
Castle Rock weathers timelessly.
Cars accelerate. Ghost towns
wither in the rearview.

Coyote says: the world ends
more than you realize.
Last Wednesday makes twice
I know of.

The apes we once were
shivered in the howling moon, wove
gods of war from their dread.
The apes we still are
spin plots from mud and iron,
vapor and deadwood and
swatches of tattooed skin.

Raven says: harbingers are shiny things,
strung with hair and
flecked with blood.

Fox says: narratives are either
rationalization or conspiracy.
Something happened. Then
something else happened.

The world ends
not with a bang,
not even a whimper, but
with ellipses.