old desert days

The silence of old desert days calls me often, the sand and the sun of june. That june. I can hear it in the quiet wind brushing across blades of grass, slipping between plants: the life that surrounds me now. In the rocks of the desert, I see wholeness, movement like back arches and smiles of simple joy, heredity. This whirling breeze on my face, this night air and closing out still fairly certain of a few things. Getting there. Getting there.

2004-07-16 | 8:36 a.m.
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