Friday, June 25, 2010

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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