There is dust on the needles of the Jack Pines and the high noon sun glints
off little mirrors of Mica adorning the rocks like bling. Cactus dare to bloom here
though the snow may come again, and hawks soar over our heads as if they
were the kiing makers and the kings. They’ve little use for our bravado
though they will gladly feast upon the luckless creatures that cross the determined path
of our machines. Peaks stand tall and harmonize
with the wind, cast deep shadows in the valley as the sun sinks low one more time.
When the moon rises I know that the coyotes will form a circle and add
their pennywhistle voices to the symphony that breathes in rhythm. We two-
legged creatures really do have a place here, as long as we feel
each footfall and remember we too shall come to dust someday.