Cold wind rocks me wake
camp flames whip
black desert
storms approach
horse and dog spooked
White veins skyward
light the world in grayscale
creatures, cactuses
stunned
beneath the flash
lashing dust gales
stubborn fire keeps itself alive
small victories
What could be the approaching thunder
that is not thunder?
If trains existed yet
I’d bet a locomotive
bearing down
massive
in the darkness
my saddle raised from the ground
gone
next, the dog
swallowed by churning black
roaring wind
I wasn’t lifted
so much as exploded
backward by an uprooted
saguaro
If there were a god
it might have plucked me
from death
but if there were a god
what be that swirling dark?
truthfront 