Drunk On The Holy Hill

Delicate leaves tremble and stir as shadows enfold them; vigilant boulders stare from dry stream-beds or scatter themselves slowly, slowly across the hillside.

Dust sifts itself idly, or catches rides upon the indigent wind to fall again in places where it will be a curiosity, far-away places where the only things known are ice or mud.

Coyotes patrol the gulches and arroyos in small, gaunt packs, their covetous faces seeming to interrupt every shadow, their pleasant, animal scent lingering in every cranny and cutback.

There are no fences in this place or porch-lights across the hazy distance, there is only the slow drip of silvery moonlight and the subliminal spiral of the earth in it’s orbit.

Constellations appear and wheel solemnly over the ancient hill transforming the summit into a cathedral, warping transient shadows into vaults and leering gargoyles.

While in the rough, star-lit nave and beneath the unadorned altar of stone

I lay wrapped in dust.

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