I could die so content right now . . .

On forbidden Mesa del Muerta
a convincing zephyr reeks
hard berries of bitter juniper
a tongue-lashing tincture
from an owl that calls her name
ghosting a gray gibbous moonset.
Beneath indifferent billows
sorry moss strands sway
cloudy cinder streaks whine
final fading leaves chatter
owl solemnly summons him
into oblivious opalescence…