Lights in the Desert
It is a dozen miles to the bald mountain
Where, in green, something burns.
More, maybe, to the dead valleys in the east.
In white, there, something was born.
In the skies you feel it; in the wind,
Were there any, and in the lying clarity
Of a winter darkness it hangs,
Seeking a depth to descend to.
Something alien and unblinking
Climbs through the mesquite in the yellow dawn,
Sees you, alone on the white road,