Bright gray shrouds brow me gently,
fencing the sun off for a few minutes
of free play. The hair of the fog recovers
slowly from last night's drunken tears,
the crying of knots tied in gums
breaking like waves before the young
tidal boom can cater that so far saltless
party on the deck of the soon to be
wrecked lawn. An ocean of a mountain
range protects us. We will not be
wet but we will not be as dry
as most brilliance engines
generally promise; this will
be a slog, this sagebrush premise bog,
this marmot log untended by
any eyes or minds; there are
antlers in place from the dear, dear
populations that once hooved
and hugged this place for its
pine nuts and its fine ruts,
formed by a million billings
of raw geographic skies.
Roman Ryan 