The fence posts beat an even pace,
their passing wires are strung with blackened
varmint-hide notes resting on their staffs.
A few blowing tails conduct
the wind's whistled dirge.
A passing deflated steer seems to have escaped
his life and the vultures
but had to leave his skin behind
among the scattered rocks of this roadside
purgatory.
Random, tumble-down shanties arrive
for no one in particular
as the horizon unrolls all day,
flowing like a treadmill under our tires,
disappearing in the rear view mirror.
A dozen spired dust-devils
chase us down this faded road,
shimmering through the emptiness
to the dusky ends of light.
Tumbleweeds grip the wires
waving to us, longing, for the other side of life
and their last chance for a taste of Canaan's honey.
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