11-03-2015, 01:52 PM
IN THE RUT
We looked in rose-colored mirrors and saw divining rods.
Now though, that glass gone grain,
I only see sand.
I see we are some dead river, bed without water,
where coyotes sniff clay with no scent,
and smoke trees pretend at smoldering.
We are where a desperate buck bends
in irreverent rut,
and nothing more, save a map for tumbleweeds.
We looked in rose-colored mirrors and saw divining rods.
Now though, that glass gone grain,
I only see sand.
I see we are some dead river, bed without water,
where coyotes sniff clay with no scent,
and smoke trees pretend at smoldering.
We are where a desperate buck bends
in irreverent rut,
and nothing more, save a map for tumbleweeds.