Out on the mesatop you can see for miles in everday direction
the descent of blue to light and gold the clouds painted out of some french masterpiece.
the rain soars down to the earth and the smell of sage fills me up like an icy cold glass of water from some stint wandering around looking at the twisted gnarled juniper trees.
i heard that they were 300 hundred years most of them
older than the railroad whistles that i heard shaking my bedroom windows.