Morning Mesa

A December sunrise over New Mexico brings an end

to the embryonic slumber of this strange girl’s earthen hovel.

Stepping outside to piss,

a stream splashes gorges through the frosted ground as

steam rises to the occasion.

On the eastern horizon,

the sun pokes his golden thorns over

the tattered edges of the Sangre De Cristo Mountains. Shadows disappear

as the glowing aura sprinkles a dash of tangerine below,

soft like baby’s breath. Bashful stars mill about

in the violet currents to the west.

Tipsy-toed, they curtsy and laugh

and kiss their farewells

to midnight’s glistening dew.

The bitter cold encapsulates, breathing deep to

suck with scorched lungs just

for a taste of something so sweet,

so frigid,

that it breaks the skin on morning teeth.

A coyote caterwauls to the dimmed moon, crying for her capitulation

to the onslaught of day,

the beast’s cackles ring of freedom’s waking revelry.

But nothing else.

No words,

no catch phrases or wasted breath from those

who buzz or whiz or clamor or curse.

All are frozen dead in their beds

as the wind whirls and gusts scatter dust

from brittle sagebrush needles.

Breaking trance,

her subtle call from the squatty shelter shatters lonely silence,

as this desert maiden before me

paces barefoot on sandstone steps.

With eyes that sparkle like winter jasmine

her whisper nibbles on my ear,

“Coffee?”

The simplicity is overwhelming.

“Absolutely.”