Low sun
Ripping winds across a desert field
I don’t see horizon soup of wavy
Heat and dust devils and dry
I see
Fleeing fears into a velvet pocket
Where the illusion of freedom
Sleeps quietly after the cry
That rests
Along a rancid dust of sage and light
And gravel from volcano and ice
Bury the history under the sky
All gone
After the whispers have traveled
Along with the roadrunner fast bird
Lizards, rocks and the cactus that die
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