The curl of sage like soggy reeds, native and wild.
Smoke. Peace. A soup of stillness spiced with cayenne hope.
If morning rises so noticed, then why can’t an immortal second?
Who can claim with certainty that such a thing doesn’t exist?
I’ve driven the lonely highways,
the ones that split the purple-distant hills and curl about them,
that border airy solitude and rocks made of pink-eroding perseverance.
The air smells like that blue sage up here, sage-blue,
of desire uncircumscribed by sameness and machine-conveyance.
It whispers coolly about my ears. I dare not speak; but I want to sing.
I have lost so much. The cliff faces challenge me to lose more.
A red-tailed hawk circles above the face-cliff, tailed-red.
I can’t help but feel a kinship with her.
Photography: A Mile High by Shawn Michel de Montaigne