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.