The Cliff

I sit among pine trees on a cliff high above prairie and pond.
Some rise green in spring, others stoop toward fall,
a few rot into sod. Below me on the cliff face lichens homestead
the rocks, patiently working the sandstone to soil. The wind is calm.
The clouds are still. But if I look again they have changed,
molded by the fingers of the wind. Flies buzz and light,
then fly unmappable courses, frantically humming. The sun burns
and consumes itself warming my face and hands. I listen.
My lungs exchange what trees produce. My heart pumps sun
to my body’s cells. Nature is reworking the clay of things.
As one season dies, another is born from its body.
As one day this cliff will fall, the rock becoming
boulders in the field, the boulders soil, and the soil trees,
their needles greening the air, high above prairie and pond.


—Eric Nelson