The Porch

the low summer throat slowly rolls 

mouths the thunder

under the sandia

bursts of purity 

white light in the wisps 

scorches

here is a place buried deeply

releasing from the fray

beneath the cholla

his rabbit easily dreams

stares 

wonders

scurries to where

a silent flight of hurried birds tight to an ancient wind turns on him

coyote scream in death sing their dark moon songs

leaving

he sees nothing more

nothing to return to

jp pestana 9/7/16

Alameda 

summer lulls under mulberries

fingers his run purple blue 

juice seed touch the tongue of horse

it is the late rooster hollow dogs cottonwood shade

it is sweet grass in clover

last night’s rain

it's what’s left 

of the sound 

of water

day