Shelter

Clothed in woven words,
wintering over inside paragraphs,
the time tribe wanders
from youth’s dark season
to the roaring pyres of night.
A river glides over sun warm rocks.
Hours or eons go by.
A flint spear flies between steady breaths.
A catfish flops in the cheat grass.
No science impedes the trek
across skies and folds of bending matter.
A termite crawls up the highest mound in the afternoon heat,
following a relentless trail.
Lightning cracks,
a flash flood rolls down a narrow canyon —
leaving mere bones without
shelter of words.

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