Mesa

A rooster crows
somewhere in Mesa
in the tangle of Phoenix

This anomaly wakes me up
makes me chuckle

Mesa seems to be
mostly gray-haired Iowans
sick of the cold
who come here to 
Never
Be
Cold 
Again

But it's November
and I miss the cold
and I miss our modest-sized bed
where we brush and bump
in the night
where I don't have to go on 
some kind of expedition
just to find your hand

Tomorrow we climb out of the valley
into purple mountains
and eventually head east
toward blessed cold
toward cozy nights
toward the bed our bodies know

That rooster, though
he's all over it
Dawn is not going unnoticed
on his watch