Drab-headed,
Wind-planed,
Butte-faced to the South,
Spidered with pine-choked gorges to the north,
Feeding tiny creeks,
Watering a patchwork land,
Painted with man’s gardening hand,
Winding thin and weak across the farmed flat,
To feed the widening snake,
That dies on the pint of a spear point lake.
-In sun-refracting cloud, at 34,000 feet
He: Gilgamesh: Into the Face of Time
