An ancient wind roared across the High Steppes of Asia, up an icy trail in Massachusetts,
sweeping New Mexico's High Desert floor, blowing back to Asia by the coast of Caifornia.

Trees bow to the earth,
Their backs weighted by
frozen planets and burnt stars.

Jogging past runes of a rusty water pump, into a canyon whose foliage is watered by
morning frost, my ears open to where
bound together shaped and given meaning by the
presence of spiritual power
old bards still raise their eyes to the sun, and Howl!