this is treacherous country,
no quarter for travelers here.
the last shade tree bared its
branches long ago,
and the sun has been hard at work
ploughing fields into canyons.
it has been years since the river
whispered tales of rain to the tumbleweeds,
and even longer since the bedrock believed them.
night is a hallucination of clouds —
mountains afraid to cast shadows.
when the storms come, this earth will not be ready.
Thanks for reading. Please clap, follow me or enjoy another poem.
🐝 beth
