Some nights
mountains turn wicked,
trick me into a fool.
This trouble goes by
like the cottonwood tree,
shedding its seeds
across a low moon
in the Colorado sky.
I saw it just the other day -
white dust passing
the mountains, cloistered
in smoke from another state.
They acted well-behaved,
patient.
But as the peaks watched me,
a foreigner in their big red world,
they thought:
she would be more free
if she had not grown up in a big city,
without prayer.
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