Racing the storm
camped on Sierra peaks
leaking sparkling snowdrifts
south of Olancha’s stone huts
each round rock
a poem fit
for publication:
perfect works
without chimney smoke,
without window glass,
without wooden doors
stand open to unfriendly futures
marking the trail
like ducks
towards Tehachapi
snow plows
loaded with desert sand.
I imagine time
resting here
on its way West.
John a very enjoyable poem to read. A real sense of place. Thank you.
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