From Beyond North Rim

I see image after image in the canyons of my secret longing mind. The smell of pinion and sage blows past this space where I sit upon a sit-upon upon the vantage point where the water flows and uranium lives, where robbers roosted and fires could be seen for miles away with stories told of days when water cooled the handmade cheese from cows kept in the barn, when survival was as difficult as today. We tell stories with dots and light like Indians, at least my mother told me so. The snow would blow beneath the door where diapers would finish drying. They hung frozen and cracked, face to this southern place where I am dreaming and wet and hot.

As a crow could fly,

The Bird