“amid the tumbleweed“
the track runs through scrub and dry weed,
nothing fenced, nothing shaped, just a wind
that moves what it wants. I keep on,
each step a small bargain with thirst,
the day pressing on with its plain heat.
thoughts offer shortcuts, quick fixes,
but the ground stays blunt. a few creatures
hold their distance, steady in their watching,
a kind of unexpected company.
i wait for whatever comes next, not as triumph,
not as some grand turn, but as the slow work
of learning how to stand here without flinching.
and in this bare stretch, something steady
meets me—quiet, enough; held close.
.
