Blow it
A northeast wind Whistles under azure skies, Rattling Joshua Tree's, Jumping cacti and The prarie sage, As a ghost moon Paints itself crescent Over the Jalapi Hills. Not enough of a wind To startle the Feeding quail, Nor turn the head Of an errant Horned toad. An old miner's shovel Stands erect In its hardbed grave Of rock and sand, And there is a taste Of Autumn In the air, A taste of change, Of what if's and maybe's. There is a light, Blighted and hazy, That dances in the dark Of the black... Sign in to see full entry.