flat as a grid iron pan.
tufts of trees here and there
cannot slow or hold the wind.
silence hangs from sky.
time does not exist.
you search for hawk feathers,
arrowheads, bits of bone.
your feet leave dry tracks
from field to road to field.
you imagine no one else exists
and wonder if you are lonely
as a cloud spins a thin veil
between you and blue.
9/17/2014