Slippery rocks,

sharp rocks,

sound like shards

of glass

clinking together

as the dogs follow me

up the sandy,

steep slope.

 

Open sky,

blue sky,

coated with the glow

of the sun,

the setting sun

casts shadows on

the prickly bushes,

torn bushes,

dry, crackled bushes.

 

I tuck my knees in close

on the cold,

rough boulder;

the one that sits tallest,

the scuffed boulder

the color of charcoal.

 

Steady,

scarred lava rock

lines the tops

of the mountains

behind me,

dotted with clumps of

sagebrush.

 

Familiar sprinklers,

spurting sprinklers,

water the alfalfa fields below.

Chh-ch, chh-ch, chh-ch.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My eyes follow the

vivid

green trees,

that weave through the valley,

the taller trees,

that follow the flow

of the creek

between the azure,

rolling hills.

 

Hushed wind,

sharp wind,

soothing wind,

rises and falls,

pulling and pushing,

taking and giving.

And I sit—

still.