Hear the blasted boulder echo,
the forlorn shifting treetaker.
The break of trees in holy mountain sunlight radiance,
it seems a dormant blue.
And here in our raceways we seek the shadowed truth.
Old coyote and his wail on the grassland,
the sheep cry on the wavering rocks.
Hot October evening, sky still lingers with light.
Young god, violent god,
send the sharp crack down upon the chrome fake souls.
Accept your place and learn to mold your adult plaster bones.
I feel everywhere I go is so far from home with the hum of cars so close.