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I go to a secret place, alonem amd sit on a ledge above the canyon labrynth choked with brush. The numerous finger canyons remain unknown to most. In the summer, the heat soars into the triple digits. Winter is the best time venture in this area, because the Mojave Rattlers hibernate. It is rich with human prehistory. I listen for those that once lived here, and died here. I feel the warmth of the canyon. It is incredible. It starts to get late in the evening, the sun fades. The skeletal mysteries of the night begin to creep. I listen carefully for the noise of the unknown river, it is flowing tonight, I should maybe go to it.

In the dark mansion of space
I ponder the old ways of this world.
Will we ever return?
What are humans without?

With every traffic noise
and every humming car
The silence remains there afterwards.
A silence greater then humans.

The pine tree quietly waits,
the forest is waiting.
The mountains keep covered secrets.
There is a greater cause
weaving into us, illusions or truths.

With every lifestyle and luxury,
Death eventually comes to everyone.
Death converts humans to the quietness…
of the flowing river,
and the natural flow.

I’m waiting for the mystery
to carry me away
over vast distances of knowledge.
I have a home beyond death.
I ponder the still endless
wastelands of the desert
onward, into dreams.