The old ways fade
and disappear into the dust—
we leave few tracks
in the mountains,
in the canyons—
our hands are rough.
Red rivers run
through our hearts,
love and logic pulse
our slow ascension:
young horseback souls
grown old and weary,
we inhale the pitch
of pine, the cedar
smoke, silhouettes
facing one another
around the fire.
Red cinders rise
to join the stars
of forgotten time
among the gods.
for Amy
drycrikjournal 