Coyote Gulch

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Down low, in the golden grass, I sit and watch the scrub oak, bled of sun, and the cottonwood, who stands below us in the canyon, his leaves immovable in the warm silence, the bright walls, the dying sun, the painted light, the circular, dry plumes of wind, the crickets and the stream, the long stripes of black against the cliffs, and I, down low in the grass, I can feel the Earth, I can smell the sand and the leaf-decay in the water, hear the slosh of my boots against mud and stone. Above us, the sky drapes itself across the cliffs, an heirloom blanket, a dying world, the sky of ancient Mars, red rock smoothed into circles and fans and waves, the imprints of an aboriginal sea, the light of stars that have since died, the dying, the long shadows, humped, human-like, as they pour into holes in the stone, the windows, the eyes, the place where the stone watches us, the place where I lay in the grass, the place where the sun turns to stone.

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