It’s the usual suspects. Sentinel trees at the south end of town, a lone sparrow on a barbed-wire fence, a white horse I call Angel in the corner corral. Oh. And all. that. land! I love roaming with the coyotes and jackrabbits; happening upon sunning lizards and field mice contented with holes for homes. If the wind is up, I head for the ashen river bed to sink low into its serpentine crevices. I adjust. My shoes. They never fail to leave prints in loose dirt, for the lost to find a way over gates and under fences. I notice things. Like this anchored thing in the ground. Some tossed wall art? Some twigs all twisted? Neither. Someone’s bent-up backyard grill rack, the weight of it now in my hand. With a heave and a ho, through the air it goes. This old new thing. It gives me glee.
satisfactorily dislodged ~
wind comes sweeping through