The Country Behind You

At the rim, the backpack leans
into its own dark weight—
the one dark thing
left outside the blaze.

You sit with your back to the country.
The hat angles into the glare,
its dark band cutting
one clean line through the light.

The canyon opens in shelves:
rust, ash, rose, rust again—
the buried colours
arriving without a name.

At the left, the river keeps
a thin green line through the red.

Far right, the sun enters the frame
in broken circles,
each flare hanging
between the camera
and the face turned away.

No face enters the picture.
The name remains outside the frame.

From the river’s level,
you might be only a dark stitch
on the pale ledge.

Then the river turns—
not towards you,
not away—
and keeps its green line
past the ledge,
past the last shelf
visible from here.