Heat fever

for now, the sun has set but its heat still shimmers in the red bottoms of thunderheads. I clutch cheap wine in a canteen, fingers cut by this sharp wyoming wind. distant highway headlights roll down the hills like teardrops. the bleached asphalt ends in a t-junction. I ask god which way but he answers with tumbleweeds and antelope. hawks float above the blacktop and maybe the dust in my eyes is burning me back to life.