Old words. Old picture. New post.

Thirty-Six hours.  the rivers cut out stories and leave them behind.  the hills are slumbering giants. all the rocks will topple over sending out the ghosts of buffalo.  this desert puts me to sleep swaying shiny gold and white and brown.  there is a whispering in the wind.  outside of San Antonio it is 32 degrees we all shuffle off the train to stretch our legs, blinking new eyes and tired eyes against the freeze. people light cigarettes, hold their arms across their chests to shiver, survey the bushes with silence. the bushes do not stare back. everything is frozen.  I watch the sun rise over quivering hilltop, checking the landscape for a pulse.

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