Brynn Gardner
Sometimes when we’re driving out
in the light of the spotted, dried hills
we round a corner, go running down the
nerves branching off the Devil’s
Backbone and look up at a mound
of dirt and rock and soil backlit by
evening—all oranges and pinks ramming
horns against the blues of the sky
behind us—and we say that could be
a mountain. Close your eyes; with the dark
brushstrokes of stone against your
eyelids, that could be a mountain.
And if it were a mountain would
the air cool? Would the drought end?
Or would the net of stars when
the day ends sink beneath a wave
of clouds and would the cold current
pull at our feet like we never thought it
could? And we turn towards the slope and
our old car rattles and groans up and
up and up the mountain until the
evening light slips into the dazzling
dress of night and it is a hill again.
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