On the way home
Shades of green blanket the horizon,
I look
in the distance,
as my love Says,
“Looks like someone spray-painted the Mesa’s white.”
The scattered, surviving snow cowers in splotches.
And the crouching cedars stretch out
with the rabbit-like bushes
together they dance as the wind creeps through.
Everything is alive.
Our car jolts to the rise and fall
Of the ancient drums
And hums with the age-old songs.
Songs that only the privileged are to hear.
To the right,
The Peaks stand tall with a white veil
Waiting for our Father, the Sun
To kiss her forehead.
Everything is alive.
As people of the land race each other
Like they’re in the Indie 500,
But only
To escape the barren land they live on.
But to me this land that we call “Home”
Is alive.
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