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The only thing that stops the dust is the rain. It’s a sweet reprieve, but there is no middle ground. The land is either as dry as the Betty Ford clinic, or as wet as the ocean floor. Everything can be seen from the ridge overlooking Armadillo as John Marston gently bounces along atop...

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Naturally Lost
Posted on Sunday, February 4 2007 @ 15:08:12 PST

I spoke to the stream, the silver sheen, and it screamed back in waves. I knocked on the tree, ancient and dry, and it shouted suicide.

I watched the riverbank of emerald grass swirl up my ankles, as the tree smashed the water into sunburst.

I closed my eyes. I closed my body. I waited for the water to coat my skin with metal.

But when I saw my clothes, myself now wet, I could not feel. The water ran down my eyes in shades. I was not the radiance nor the warmth I longed for.

I was naked frost.

I had slivered back into the earth. I had coiled into dust.

I had become the it that speaks, that speaks, wandering off the baby's breath.

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