Funnel of pink sky, deep root reds of sunset
lying up against the mellowing west
drooping of the trees,
as, if, to kiss the ground, begging for mositure to
ease their thirst, rain must fall, torrents of,
wetness to relieve the trees and grass of, their
terrible drowse.

Sagging of, the wind against the trees, making them
weak, bow their knees, sap their branches as, each
breath touches the trunk.

Dust settling softly upon everything, coating the
weeds and bushes thick as can be, 
deepening of, twilight over the eerie land
lends shadows to fence posts,
makes them look tall, the moonlight creeps in
on silent feet, searching out places we can't
even see.

Brittle leaves and whirls of dust blanket sound of,
dragging feet, a lonely hobo with
no where to go, let
alone a place called home, lays his head upon a stone,
till the next day, when he will arise to roam, down all
the vallies, from here to there, eat anything, has next
to nothing to wear, refuses to care for the things of,
this world, he is a free man!

1/8/03