Spring in its haunting joy sweeps the black hills,
                                                   blowing
the skeletons that hung above me back
into their graves and skins, and giving flight
to the arrows I draw from the past;
flying swift and strait through today,
quietly outrunning the burning earth
that charges from behind
with the bitter stable hands of the wind
crying out your ills are no worse then mine
                                             running
the burlap highways of dusk, toward the storms
rising and lightning shining down.


Next Stop>