Graydigger's Home

Paw marks near one burrow show Graydigger

at home, I bend low, from down there swivel

my head, grasstop level—the world

goes on forever, the mountains a bigger

burrow, their snow like last winter. From a room

inside the world even the strongest wind

has a soft sound: a new house will hide

in the grass; footsteps are only the summer people.

The real estate agent is saying, "Utilities . . .

easy payments, a view." I see

my prints in the dirt. Out there

in the wind we talk about credit, security—

there on the bank by Graydigger's home.