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Morning light

comes. I

gaze into planetary

shadow deep as

blindness, and morning


light gradually

comes, elemental


forms too: desert,


sky. Morning

light comes


and sight precisely

as it did

through its long


beginnings, opening 

this world


inside us: planetary

desert, mountain,

sky when


there were

no words, no

words for

any of this.

It’s the least

possible hope: food, water,

shelter. Human


history begins

there, and I


never leave

those beginnings

really, wander at home

there, touching

the possibilities of



I wake

somewhere deep

inside the blazing


cascade of star

generations. It’s early


spring, morning

air cool, sun

warm. I linger out

breakfast, walk, mirror


sky. The usual

things. Life seems

so simple

sometimes. Who’d suspect

this is how it

happens, how that


cascade of fire

rips day 

by day through


me, licking

its wounds?






Days go on

like this. Sky-parched

grass and desert


sky. Humming-

bird. Mesquite seed-


fluff tight in its

cracked sun-

scoured packet


spills out

on the wind. Some-


times, I

try to remember

that distinction



what I

am and whatever

occurs next.

Traveling today I

found a river

somewhere inside

me, wondered


how far it

wanders there


and how much

sky it

mirrors. All day

long, wind and desert


light, I

followed that river’s

distances, shedding



histories, until I was

nothing but

river. Nearing

mountains, I grew


cold with snow-

melt and evening


wolves drank from my

currents, tasting

the clarity of water


rinsing through every

cell alive, always

changing, always its own

transparent self.

Yellow sky-

parched grasses

and sky. The less


this desert

is, the more I


want to live

my life

over again. Ideas


confuse me. They

leave so

much out.

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