Music drifts out of the brush-scarred truck doors
like old books; it begins as an incidental music
with the light falling in sheets—a screen door
slamming. Something is causing the quail to sing
with the occasional and captive thorns; the lone signals
of consciousness persuade the mindful to ponder
what is a pleasant view from the bunkhouse porch
this workday morning. Horse thieves hide in the draws
to raise and display our crested dreams, the perils
and visions. We've left the mission to be rebuilt
by tourists
who prop their canes on the low, refurbished benches
at the piano bar, amazed at how wildly the lupine bloom.
rdking