Oak Springs Trail
musk of yerba santa,
rosemary and sage,
young yuccas erect
and sun-drenched
below spirals
of ochre-black hawk--
a single feather to fall,
my hand its candlestick,
wand of speckled flame.
lifting fingers high,
waxy with glistens,
i watch quill flicker
hot in july wind;
then release it to fly,
a soar on a wish
extinguishing us both
with glee.
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