a haze on the lens

I feel dulled. . .

I feel dulled,

the sheer effort of a school year

and then getting out here to Wyoming

hazes the lens through which

the outside tries to touch me: 

the towering snowy rocks of the Tetons

contrast against the flat green lushness of the Snake River valley,

a heron displays for us with casual power,

3 elk meander downslope and across field,

and I know I should be mightily moved,

but I’m not all here yet:

the keen edge of my cutting through 

to what is real enough to shake me, 

that edge is dulled,

the white of a waxing Moon overhead

is mirrored in head and tail of an eagle flying by,

yet I am drawn more to the white of the sheets 

which call me to sleep.

by Henry H. Walker

June 17, ’13