Multiply
distance
by heat.
A half-day ride
at a hundred degrees
can seem like
a century of travel.
Fire circles the horse’s hooves.
That’s not dust
they’re kicking up,
it’s smoke.
Mid-day,
the rider falls.
The sound
from his broken skull
is a thousand grasshoppers
screaming
the cutting edge
of sun.
Blood spills
in a flash flood,
the earth knows
no refreshment.
Riderless horse
is crucified
by coyotes.
Red ants worship
in a cathedral
of bone.
Years pass.
Earth,
sky,
and the million
singing insects
reclaim their own.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
