At Thacker Pass, by Rob Lewis
Tilting sea of sagebrush, ancient fragrance rising. Circular distances weaving baskets of stone, time, silence. The windmind where you wandered before your name before the dials and settings of Progress closed and ordered your gates. * Dusty shoes outside the tent which shifts in dying wind. Sitting in the doorway far ridge at dusk looking back at you and then you are there and all points between spread open flying the widening moment freed of words. * Distant headlights, crawling somewhere. A mile off? Seven? A wagon train? An electric car? A boat lost at sea sinking in its track. * The road once was trail for Paiutes on horseback, the land side to side planted with prayers. Now it is on a schedule, caught in economic crosshairs (exposed, sky whispering calling water for Her birds.) Counting 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…. Blow it up for lithium. * In a room in a building in a mind in a belief in an economic plan everything is stuck. There, The Branching ends.