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 casino online 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

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

always whistling
I wonder if it drove some of them mad
or if it provided conversation intermittent with silence?

This entry was posted in A Year In the Ideal, by G. Collins Lankford, Books and Collections and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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