On a desert plain there is nothing left but the remains of a rusted Chevy, diagnosed, terminally ill. The juxtaposed spectral of metal and wood carcasses dancing with the solitude of earth and wildlife. To see the shimmer reflect on a broken glass in a vast field full of silence and dry grass. In the quiet there is a slight disquietude that only settles when a bird swoops overhead. Clouds in the distance are a sign that rain will come soon, but they say that only God and the Sparrows know for sure.

On quiet nights you can hear a woman’s voice being carried off in some distant wind. It is not a wail nor that of some banshee-type, but a song swaying on the hammock of silence. The wind pushes and pulls, swindling you out of your senses. In the reach of an archaic grassland a silhouette staggers like an old pirate who has lost his way. In that outline of a man you see the many incarnations of a dream deferred. And though you know it is only the shadow of an enlightened tree, All you can see, in that distant tree, is a reflection of thee.

-Harley,

somewhere in between New Mexico & Texas, March 2008