Red box rolls
my neck is tense
contained by the car unrelenting
the jerky sticks in my teeth
and the windows rolled down masks
the music
just then a bird met its demise
hit the windshield, sad
but at least it hit in a way so
I don’t have to clean the glass
there is something about
arid lands
like a certain clarity from
lack of moisture in the air
100 miles seems a stones throw
water used to travel here
I see remnants of snake switchbacks
dry beds of meandering paths
If one should follow
where might it lead
to a source?
if stranded, would I die
it makes me wonder
about the homesteaders
not natives, nomadic with
a rich history of tribed families,
immigrants just had themselves
and their own ignorance
to depend, to fend against the bleak
awareness
living alone here where it barely rains
where it’s 90°+ most of the summer
and well below 0° in the winter
and naught to block
the incessant wind whipping
through the night and day
drawing attention to how far they’ve come
whistling
always whistling
I wonder if it drove some of them mad
or if it provided conversation intermittent with silence?
Tags: A Year In the Ideal, by G. Collins Lankford, books, G. Collins Lankford
January 7th, 2010 at 11:05 pm
I like this one where it says
“just had themselves
and their own ignorance
to depend, to fend against the bleak
awareness”
relates to humanity succinctly