winter colors the horizon a soft orange, sunset at the edge. clouds so distant, so low, they appear as perhaps mountains. veriche is handling the paper and flower with the force and tenderness it needs to become a wand in their fingers. jon keeps the little red Prius riding north. he has polished the leather seat coverings. i am counting the hawks as we pass them, little vases propped on the bone fingered branches, dormant trees. try to recall what grew here, there: cabbage fields, strawberries, apricots, artichokes, almond groves. note the small piles that the farmers will burn. home smells like wet fire, if you can imagine. or, it is what the act of clinging might emit, were it living. and maybe it is. cling, clung. whispers and rain, smoke and thistle. my side profile hung in reflection, in the tinted glass, like a moon that doesn't move while everything else does.
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