Geometry Western

Over into all day on a dusty line, just one finger clasps the edge of a wagon, curls over a fast moving trail. You utter something but it goes straight to the wind,

straight over to the cacti.   

They are like men, tall witnesses on a mountain side.
If they hear you it doesn’t show.   

We move into a triangle of shadow into a pass.

Past a boulder and out the other end.