Sunset at Pulpit Rock

Violent rifts of bludgeoned light

Slice through creeping dusk,

Flooding gorge and painting rock

On twilight’s sharp’ning tusk.

Brilliant hues of rust and sky

Are dimmed by evening’s chase.

Gold is caught in swallowed stone,

And clouds recede to lace.

Racing sunlight to the rock,

Time is only this.

Sacred mission of boot and soil,

From daylight’s parting kiss.

Crafty paths through field and brush

Weave lies and stolen time

As daylight dips below the ridge,

The earth maintains its climb.

But now your labored breath is caught

In jagged sandstone peaks.

The clock has stopped, the race is won.

The world is at your feet. 

Feathered pink weaves through the clouds,

Framing stone and pine.

Sewn with streaks of waning gold,

The pulpit’s preached divine.

Rehearsal

Whack. Whir. Clang. Thud.  
Brazenly bursting labor’s song.
Dissonant variants high and low,
Strummed from a ladder of short and long.

The strike of the hammer, metallic and sharp,
Ringing with ancient, storied notes.
Steeped in mythology wielded by Thor,
Tolling the bell chimes John Henry wrote.

A shimmying ladder clatters with vinyl
Like paper clip wind chimes molded in steel.
Double-time tempo is mingled with halves
As the hefting contraption clangs on with zeal.

A nail gun decisively pounds like a pendulum
Piercing the noise as the steadiest beat.
The militant metronome rallies the rest

In a boisterous binding of friction and heat.

Gliding below the cacophonous racket
A velvety whirring of whistling blades
Slices through silvery slivers of wood

As the buzzsaw subtly enters and fades.

Graveyards of sawdust flank chiseled-off steel
As the orchestra's glory subsides to a growl.
The blaze begins setting, the instruments sheathed.
Rehearsal concludes til 9 a.m. tomorrow.