In October, we can't help but settle
in this canyon's arms with dry star thistle
and purple vinegar flowers
curling away from tiny leaves.

Embraced, we count what's ours
and find acorns garnered
in woodpecker snags. The harrier's arc
up slope is a long season,

and like the bird, we're rewarded
for endurance with evenings of cool light
slanting orange across our short-sleeves,
and the smell of vinegar weed and vulnerability

rising with the day's final sigh
from between basalt cobbles.
This time of year offers long moments
to notice the grove's green

where last spring's fire fed;
to wait as my dog watches the sun's
descent: her ears triangulating forward to hear
the vague growl of powerlines

reminding us that, like each Navajo rug
with a stray yarn carefully woven in
to let spirits enter and exit, nothing's perfect.
Connor, please remember:

We can't help but return
the embrace of a force that holds us
though it's scripted with paths.
Steel towers and cables interrupt

this landscape, allowing us to enter
and depart as we need. Connor, you found
a thread, grasped it and webbed
your way here--fingers rubbing across

purple needle grasses and bony hairs
of a catfish's back--to the nest
your parents shaped for you;
the rest of us encircling it, our hands

water-chapped, soil-gritted,
or pen-callused; palms up,
waiting to touch you.
Someday you'll name the mountains

across the valley, the creek
behind your house, and each one of us.
You'll name last February's flood,
find a word for the dog's gentle limp;