What’s under all this
Owyhee August
bunchgrass
and this sand?
High, folded hills where
memory runs on
like feldspar
from footprint to ridgeline
and no sudden creek,
reflecting my image
but deeper than I imagine,
pulls me back out.
Is there only this one
hard release?
Only mud rivers cracked
and warped, rock doves
lifting in waves
from hundred foot cliffs,
under morning sun
until rock drops
off to nowhere
and the nothing
starts to speak.
Out here you see it all
in stark relief.
Hear it:
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