Storm clouds. Heavy, rolling thunder and
standing pools near standing rock or the like.
One, two, three, four, five, six times the
baldy fourteeners rebelling out the landscape.
Clear light butted by fringes of wispy vastness
that only this region can define.
Help me figure this out. Help me find a way to
return and fully define the role that lurks near
the realm of pure truth. No way to get away.
From this. This place, this feel, this space and
this nothingness. At times I wish I never knew.
Take the secret back. Jettison me. Quit me.
The Western Front. All’s quiet.