An ancient wind roared across the High Steppes of Asia, up an icy trail in Massachusetts,
sweeping New Mexico's high desert floor, blowing back to Asia off the coast of Caifornia.

Trees bow to the earth,
Their backs weighted by
Frozen planets and burnt stars.

Jogging past the runes of a rusty pump into a canyon watered by morning frost, my ears
open to where bound together shaped and given meaning by the presence of spiritual power,
bards still raise their eyes to the sun and

Howl!