A knuckled ridge
a callus torn in dry tufts
of old, cracked skin
trying to heal.

The veins of this valley
are shriveled and exposed,
only brittle spines of chaparral
cling to the salted surface
or crumble down to join the dust.

But peeked over a shouldered horizon
the white-faced moon
is a pock-eyed smile
as I capture a lone falcon's
wings afloat like specks in the great whorled
ridges at the tips of my splayed fore-fingers.

I close my eyes and
the rhythm of atoms
drum down the spine
of these dried out mountain
bones elbowing the fat
skies like a rangy burro
collapsed upon a wintered oak.

We wait for new seeds to fall, replenish
this earth in a changing of seasons, yet
bare soles can taste the ancient dirt
ripe with knowledge
that loosened grips
can still find a pulse
alive and soaring beneath mechanical roars
of jumbo-jets, just hiccups in the paling breadth.

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