Four miles of dusty trails, with side trips down to what is now a very low-running stream. No clouds, no fog, no mist, no smoke. Far off, on the other side of the canyon, the great echoing voice of a raven. The talk now is of rain, and the patience of ferns.
Bare feet. Thirty-nine degrees. Even in drought, we outlive our own death.
September 16, 2021
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces