Nothing happens next

Nothing happens next.
The sun itself will stop its climb,
the pause of shadows, inherently blue,
stretching low across the Western field.
Your shotgun will rest still against the apricot tree,
the squirrel who alluded you snuggled safe in its burrow.
The Redtail will perch tall on the electric pole by the fence.
The aging swing will silence its squeak.
Pastured cows will lie down,
their broad, curved backs to your porch,
where you will never again walk out the worn front door.
Even the dry dust will halt its rise,
hanging in the air, suspended,
like some old-time sepia photograph
blurring below its curved glass frame.
Only the stream will speak,
soft litany of goodbyes tumbling over the rocks,
passing underneath the graveled drive,
along the wall of your small green-sided home,
the metal-roofed barn,
the empty clothesline.
Nothing happens next,
until the rusting backhoe has finished its digging, 
there, below the gnarled Cottonwood tree on the hill,
until the pale pine casket fashioned by your son’s hands
holds you like a cradle.
Until this land you custodianed comforts you
within its soft curve of dirt.
And then,
then, it will all continue.