I light the fire and wait for my life's details
To dry out - buckled paperbacks,
The sleeve of an early Dylan record
(Young jew-angel's face, cowboy mystery,
Holding his guitar's neck like a flowering tree)
A man could die waiting between these hills.
One day, too late for insects, bleak with peace,
After a month of my turning stones by the moon,
The hills will hear the brash harmonica
And send a patly scored reply in gusts.
And in that instant as the axis tilts
Someone will cross the sags, his clothes blown dry.
from "High Country - The Hut"
by Tim Thorne