Pagoda is the end of the road.
A state sign gives the warning
in blue and yellow: Road Ends.
We are on our own in Pagoda, no place at all.
Energetic flies greet us. Out of the corner
of my eye, a dog runs lightly
across the billowing snow and I wonder
what sort of luck is this? Flies in January.
There are so many ways to be nowhere,
menacing or peaceful.
We are facing life without
externals here in Pagoda, at the abandoned post office.
Godot may be sitting on a bench nearby, doing
you know what.
Who came here for news or mail anyway?
No houses, no streetlights, no fences
no churches, no drugstore,
no bar and café with the dancing couple in neon
forever lit
no life except for the flies and us, and now
the dog has slipped down to what may be a river
or an avalanche of tumbled trees.
Nobody to be here in Pagoda
except ourselves. Most difficult
in Pagoda. I turned and looked
at the crusty road and those boulders
black above us.
Colorado so aware of its beauty and
its barrenness.
A cool demeanor its essence.
The snow suddenly balloons again
all around us
smoothly obscuring
those boulders and the dog
that hides a wolf with golden eyes.
Stephanie Moran
Durango
