Aubade in Central Oregon

I wake
the wine-dark son     stars
flipping on axis 
transect nebular spires
as the canyon like a watercolor
fades into perspective     wild rye
clouding these moon-plowed fields
where a river rock is space dust    sky 
strangled in a grape vine 
helix     galactic dissonance 
fighting the gleam
of day     the vortex into being and then 
this summer becomes the summer
of Orion — in itself an ode to
the hunter and are we not
all hunters?     Turned upside
over the light of each axis
I think
as the first chukar begins 
to call		            (to me)
then another 	    another