Stargaze at the edge of the fallow land where
Sun meets Earth meets Sky:
Rollicking hills rolling out a red carpet for
celebrities of the celebrated plain;
planes dusting in the distance, waterfalls
on top of withering wheat
the shade of dead lemons left out in the heat.
Melancholy hymns of a fiddle carried like echoes
through harried horses neighing in harmony—
a genuine Rocky Mountain choir
invited to the site of unmarked graves
held down with tensed-up twine and wooden staves.
Makeshift crucifixes whittled by the wind which
whips hair and browning leaves and weather vanes in
a melange of mundane motion.
Swill the stalk of straw at the corner of
your sun-cracked lips;
survey the recumbent remains
of cowboy cadavers, dust mites, and siren songs.
