On Top

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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All writing is the original work of Brian Wright and may not be copied, distributed, re-printed or used any form without express written consent of the author. 

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