Clover and buffalo grass and dry gulches that never see water.
Lime stone cliffs and flint hills, plain
But the scent envelopes the body with a blanket of blue sky
Shelter that suffices.
 
Others can go there but few are called.
As if roots of life that survive the gusts can stretch,
Never to whither but grasping the soul, keeping a portion unchanged.
 
And when summoned, the gully between then,
There and here now, grows
Surviving the drought like all else.