I took the hot dry highway far north of my home
and watched the vultures circle around the dead and peeling tires in the dust
When I stopped to gas up I took a look at myself
I briefly wondered if I should pick up the lifeless hawk on the shoulder of the road
his feathers fluttering in the wind
But I just carried on
I read the name of every creek I passed. Elder Creek. Sour Grass Creek.
Oat Creek. The wide blue bountiful Sacramento River making the roots dance.
And I drove myself to this old motel where the air conditioning sounds like a waterfall
And where we'll dance and you'll make love to me and we'll be new again, we two
And laugh like only the young laugh.
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