We never quite give-in to the ground,
though it shapes faces and scars our flesh—
mountains and canyons worn apart
from the crowd, our trained brains taught
to see the smaller things while looking out
over purple ranges to snow white teeth
sunk sharply into the blue, blue sky
after a cold rain clears the air, erases
tracks, cleans all but the near at hand
climbing higher for the tallest green
hidden in the old, gray grass, mildewing—
cows and calves full atop the ridge,
friends and family lying in leafless shade
looking out beyond the perfect dreams
of our calculations ever coming out.
drycrikjournal 
That is the way it is.”they slowly leak back to our control”. Pat
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