… an old water tower on the edge
of town. It’s not used anymore.
They still haven’t torn it down.
Silver paint sheds in rusty
patches: a well-traveled knight
of old, or a rocket that never
made a journey.
It’s there in February wheat fields
without the green of early spring,
or shine of the cold white snow.
The mud is still frozen.
Evening comes early this far
North. A light from the West sweeps
in under a grey sky, a honey light
smooths this dead place.
Warm air from the coast
over the mountains brings rain,
not the snow of the high passes.
Every year the plows get closer
to the supports; asphalt
spreads wider from town.
The tower will vanish.
I’ll flip a coin
as to which finally kills
the hollow ring in the reservoir.
first published in High Plains Literary Review, Vol. 7,
no. 3, Winter, 1992