The Spanish Peaks

You had said that the range 

was the small of a woman’s back.

And the indians, they had said 

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these were the breasts of the earth.

But I chose never to see it, not that way.

Instead, transfixed on the vastness of that valley.

A paleness, something like sandstone.

Such a small thing that made us feel at home.

 

No matter the time of day, 

there is a warmth to that light.

A light spread open and wide and welcoming.

But the dryness and the constant moan,

It threatens our existence, especially at night.

The tarps they rage and even the trees, in a slow burn, seek a moment of placidity.

Even the trees know, it won’t come.

At least not until morning, when the first light reaches the Spanish Peaks.