The Old Ones

In the end there was only the land,
lonely without the people it had known.

The wind still came to dance the old
dances, but went away disappointed.

The rains gathered, searched each arroyo
for broken twigs, charcoal, any faint sign.

The rocks sent back whatever they heard,
waiting to catch laughter that never came.

The moon climbed up high every night,
looking for someone to sing her a hymn.

The antelope wandered where they willed,
generations without the hunter’s scent.

Only the river shrugged its shoulders,
“A world?  What is that?  It flows on, flows on...”