The hills have ties
and I am tied to them.
These rocks and sage
brushes painted my 
feet the colors of the
din. Sounds reverberate
through my marmot hands
dwelling like fingers on the
tips of the nails that secure
these unlikely trees to these
seemly cliffs. Sniff carefully,
the wind has rabbitbrush
in addition to burnt pine
from three counties over.
Try the West for a summer
and you will understand 
the smell of destitution and 
repair, the world rejecting
its ant colonizers, too many
structures to stand the heat.
Will we get kicked out of this
kitchen? That's a question for
the bigger world and it won't
answer. Well, it will answer,
but not in words; the eventual
birds will spell out who and 
what are left. Right will have
nothing to do with it. Anyway
like I said, the hills have ties
and I am tied to them. My 
existence is no matter of 
resistance, it's a current 
that flows and flowers 
across the rocks that
line the bottom of this
ready cosmic stream.