Red Sandstone Cliffs at Dusk

The sound of human suffering in the distance—
a contralto, wailing lavishly—comes from a bearing
off the mountain that places it in the stand
of solitary shacks by the airport—a hermit's
lurid caterwaul—until you locate it among
the echoing rocks so close by you can make out
the stippled hackles she raises, in righteous fury,
to lover or foe unseen around a bend
in the trail, a scene, perhaps a tragedy,
so enthralling she doesn't notice the outsider
listening for signs of what she means, as if
a feral cat might divulge something I've sought
to isolate, something fearful and telling,
which may tell of nothing but isolation.

Copyright © 2005 David Woo All rights reserved
from The Eclipses
BOA Editions, Ltd.
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission