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at the top of a hill fire burning bush along the railroad cut boots digging into
calves too long out in the sun and the raw cuts across the dead land poisoned land
cows mooing on the dry riverside like a scar in the earth like god dragged his foot
in a broad sickle across the Northwest and here is no forest here is whisky burning bush
jesus land filled with fairy windmills and cerulean sky caught in the ribbon of the silver columbia boots digging into her calves balances rifle on hip sweat trickling down under black arms sandstorm brace mosin burning arms filled with scent of
tumbleweeds gone phoenix-feral by the tracks roaring like veins in arms roaring with
trains howling from ports down columbia way covered dusty and how the cars go by on the freeway
she shifts the gun
(wind blows)
and fires.

 

 

She puts her head to the ground

trying to hear the approach of a stampede

or

                                                                                                              the first tremor of a thunderstorm

                                                             the first wave of an earthquake

the last train headed west

 

She lifts a single finger toward the sky

trying to gauge the direction of the wind

sand/dunes  fire/ashes  rain/floods

 

I try and read her expression

her face betrays

                                                                         nothing 

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