42. Homesick

The sagebrush and tules miss me.

The cacti cry.

The mountains moan

huddled under white blankets

stained with blue blood and

ripped by treetops.

The dust has cried

until its own tears

have settled its dance.

The wind keens and 

howls across earth

trying to find me,

not finding me,

running east and south

searching the land

for me.

.

I am here,

I whisper–

here I am,

so far north.

The sun, tired of shining

upon my sadness,

climbs only a few feet

above monotonous spruce oceans

before settling back down.

Night is longer than the knife

edge of a sand dune

streaming off toward ribbon clouds.