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 that’s 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.