Ancient mountains send coarse sand and
sharp stone down, just pebbles at a time,
to leave us unsteady on our feet before
rolling past us into dry washes, rough cut
across this red desert. On the ebb of a cool
wind, the whispers of women. Messages
of hope and strength carried on the tongues
of coyotes as the pack scrambles on the path
back up. Running wild on the ridge, releasing
our words to burn hot on the mountain, smoke
rising in pink and gold clouds to cover the sky.
Anna Blake at Infinity Farm
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