Sometimes I'll be reading
and come to a description
or a way of looking
I'd thought was mine alone
written by someone I've never met,
perhaps someone long dead,
and the connection forms a bridge
out of myself to guide me back.
What Shakespeare was to Larry,
the grasslands were to his father,
a great, subtle text rewarding endless study.
His father had a countryman's eye
for small varieties of landscape.
Larry looked at many places quickly.
His father looked at one place deeply.
Each year the short drive on the dirt road
to the ranch became less of a simple thing.
I watch a yellow half moon
suspended above the horizon
before it slips behind the sea
fading light in the starry black sky.
When we look at the heavens,
we see into the past
through time light takes to reach us.