look west from my house a leering mountain stands, abrupt, jagged, with a sneer- carved expression that says, stop. right. there. so people hike the wrinkles, cross over its cheeks wander up the shaven face burled with scars and bumps and breathe in the view I’m different I’ll look for the cave I’ve yet to find, that cuts through the density, squeezes between cracks, goes in deeper till I find the spot where the cold stone begins to warm same place I explore if I me

I sometimes wonder what happens after the last breath, if awareness stays as I’m thrust into a new place where I know no one and after that jarring initiation, I hope it doesn’t take long to get my feet on the ground, and knowing me, let my mouth start reeling in the first few souls I encounter, hopefully a friend or two, then find some social group for newcomers before joining a club or two, get invited to a potluck, hoping they have ovens and ingredients for cookie dough

years ago, I nearly moved to those Tucson foothills and spent a few nights there the yip of coyotes was as feral as the silence stars as overwhelming as the darkness Tucson’s lights quivered in the waves of escaping heat so when Nancy Guthrie was pulled from her house, it was a wavelet in the stillness, one ripple on a sleepy ocean coyotes heard it smelled blood they didn’t recognize stopped the hunt in its tracks aiming ears, flaring noses as eyes watered into a st