Brown grassy mountainsides; full of yucca and sharp burs and stripped-naked trees.
(Your buffalo have all been murdered, America.)
atop this vertical precipice, the edge of everything thatβs never been, before a white and faceless Void: the sore thumb of a boulder. A gray and ancient troll.
There sits a changed and stoic stranger wrapped in a wool blanket against piercing winter wind and frost. Sharing my thoughts. My organs. My perch.
Walking along this trail⦠there can only be death. I check my silent moving watch. Time to turn back.