It was not like when the warm wind
was a lover tickling my ear with her tongue.
I camped on one of the few flat spots
that defined the Continental Divide.
No fire. A reddish apple and almonds
was a feast for the century.
The stars were bright and numerous—
how could an ancient spot a new one.
I quieted myself and listened to the night sounds.
I fingered the brim of my hat.
Sleep was a flock of crows flown into my eyes.
The crows feasted on something dead inside me.
I awoke and they flew out.
I inhaled tastier air under a brighter sun
that intensified the colors of the rocks
and conifers and the blues of errant scrub jays.
copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney