1.

At the first timid tinge of blush in the sky
he emerged, shirtless
from his shelter.
And seeing how the shadows
slipped down into the canyon
he searched, thirst-less,
for a cactus.

He sat at its feet
all morning, legs crossed
like a native. He prayed to the green
scarecrow, begged him to help.
He was worn, like an old stone,
weary from his war
with the sandpaper wind,
and ready to be born again
as pieces.

When the heat reached him,
broke the distant ridge,
he stared at the sun--
until he cried.
Blueberry eyes
bled and burnt black.
He turned away,
just before he went blind.
        
2.

In the white afternoon
when shadows dissolved,
he gazed downward
into the carcass of the creek.
He passed the red hours
by counting piles of bleached bones,
clumps of carbon
that sizzled in the sand.

He counted Seventy seven
fleshless creatures
sleeping beside the dream
of water.

3.

It was dusk when he descended
into the canyon.
He carried a pen light,
a shovel, and a map.
At the bottom he waded
through dust, ran his hands
through cold sand, touched
ripples born of the breeze.

4.

The moon bloomed.
Blue light flooded the canyon.
He smiled. Laid down.
Let the water wash over.