Where I live

Barren hills
monotonously conforming
beaten down
a snapshot in time
like ocean waves frozen—
dead.
Here is where I stopped,
a purgatory, a wasteland.
Like me, these fields once lived.
Now they contain only one kind of straw.
But late at night
coyotes still wander,
and sometimes I wake to their calls,
their cries,
that like the small spark in my soul,
they are not completely extinguished,
these natives
now aliens,
defiant
because they survive.
Backlit by the moon,
they sing to the deaf.

 

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