spring magnet
1896
There is a figure by limestone dressed in lichen who basks by cool waters. It fans like firelight on misted valley. It whistles through wind-whipped holler.
and not far beyond, there is a man departed from eastern plain, swaying on saddled and exhausted mare. He wipes his oiled brow and grips his Winchester.
Pointed stones and whittled bones are cursed by dust devils and tumbleweeds. He steadies himself down carved brakes. His mare's gait stiffens by empty prairie dog towns.
She puffs, ears perched and twitching. He halts and wields his rifle. His shaded gray eyes rest on iron sights towards the valley. His unkempt face bristling.
He clicks and stabs his horse to continue forward. "Come on, you old b#tch!"
She rears and throws him off. He fell hard on matted sagebrush and onion grass. He spits and calls out, "Come out, you mangy coyote!"
She snorted, kicking up scoria. He groans as he pulls himself up, beats his hat and brushes dust from his waistcoat. He stumbles towards his mare as she sidesteps.
He pauses then relaxes. "Aw, come on, girly."
He fumbled in his empty pockets—no penny, no bribe.
He crouches and brushes the prairiegrass.
He finds a curious thing.
He approaches, brandishing the thing between his pointer finger and his thumb, cockleburrs crunching underfoot.
He lunges toward the stirrup, grabs the reins, and spurs the horse, propelling her forward.
The mossy spirit now trailed behind like the flooded red.
The tapestry now spinning from burrs to cones and elms to fir.
She paused at a glassy brook. Shifting her weight off her hoof.
I am nowhere, old girl.
He fishes out a sour and bruised apple from his saddlebag. She sniffs and turns.
He raises the rifle...
The smoke towered like totems, his face backlit by flame.
Limestone bursting from cliffsides. The lichen soaked branches, now stinging his nose. And the brook licks the pads of his palms.
stone oracle
cunning tiger
spice remnant