Apache Plume on the Trail to Tent Rocks
New Mexico
by Pippa Little
Everything is dry,
even shadows
pink-eye along rocks
a hundred centuries brown:
the plumes draw their long inky lashes
across us and we step through them, sleepers
dreaming spiders’ webs
One day before the sun falls
you will hear the first horse
singing
further along the ridge
where you saw him first
big as a god and unshining,
clay spirals in his mane,
singing in the time before singing
and all your bones answering
Gyroscope Review 2
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