Ronald Manning's The Tonopah Effect¹

by Ronald Manning

                                          From the summer floor of Big Smoky Valley
                                                  a fireless pyre of twisted wind
                                                       heaves upward through dead air;
                                                  a drunken tower tracing a path
                                                       precise and foretold at the flash of creation;
                                                  a wraith of dust responding to a plan
                                                       simply, completely, without though or counsel.

                                          Inattentive scud puffs, unschooled in mountain flying,
                                               are caught fast on the winward peaks
                                                     of Butler, Oddie and Ararat
                                                            and there soon die of thirst.
                                          The feeding scarps, appeased for a time,
                                                 allow the others to pass unmolested to
                                                       distant scenes in the east.
                                          Lenticular cloud stacks
                                                 stand and still-mark
                                                        the leeward, eastbound winds.

                                          Summer storms, common in late sun,
                                                    sometimes stalk at night.
                                          A solitary nimbus, innocent enough,
                                                    comes padding on catamount feet.
                                          It softens the moon and covers the dipper;
                                                    the yeast of heat and wet begins to fill the vault
                                                          from Ralston south to Fleshbeater Flat.

                                         And then it announces.
                                         Taut and turgid it overtops the valley;
                                                the bombastic thunder, the arrogant lightning;
                                                the bellowing of a bull in an empty arena;
                                                fireworks in a closet.
                                         And once again, marrow-filled arroyos throb
                                                with the muffled tumbling of water-rushed rocks.

                                         The sharp shapes and shadows framed
                                                in the early eastern light reveal
                                                     a scape washed clean, made fresh;
                                                     a scented medley of wet and sand, sage and mesquite.
                                         Storm to calm, flood to murmur. All is as it was.
                                         Wherein lies the greater power, the taper or the holder?

                                         Clear winter nights, absent moon,
                                                play all of the lesser works,
                                         Shows that find no audience
                                                in Los Angeles or New York;
                                                such minor classics in themselves
                                                as Taurus, starring Pleiades
                                                and Coma Berenices.

                                                Measured by²
                                                     the muted tick
                                                         of the quiet dipper clock,
                                                              those winter, wind-scrubbed firepoints
                                                                  of pre-historic lights played out
                                                                       their acts again tonight
                                                                            to a packed house
                                                                                 numbering
                                                                                      one.