Broad vistas of tall monuments
sweep across barren hillsides
and checkerboard roads:
The insectile progress of life.
Cirrus clouds like paintbrushed smoke
drift east. Birds waver in the skies
and dive, wings beating soft
whistles. The hollow rasp of
breath accompanies the chorus of wind
tracing hollow cliffs. The sandstone beneath
like the jagged stab in my lungs.
The air is polluted with
the cologne of sand, the dryness
of the desert, the faint musk of dead
juniper. The salt of sweat
trickles down to my lips.
I’ve reached the top.
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