ART FAG?

A quick and un-edited musing on the geography and topography of Rancho San Enrique.  

An ocean of blue, but neither a sea nor body of liquid. Waves of breeze and blow, not licked sea caps but wisps of cloud. The only tide is the sun up and sun down, never hidden nor masked, except on its nocturnal flight.

Earth wide, space large. Landscape few, distant view. horizon granted, earths curve slanted.

Most days warm. Kissing fleece of hugging content. Some days cold like a stepmothers breath. One day shirts off, shorts on. Then next day turned off, hustle on.

To the front fathoms of room. To the rear fortress sentinels loom. Protected in the corner, backs to the wall. Canyons scored by rain, hiding places with a thousand no names. A thousand and twenty times fissures concealed, secreted and veiled.

Little sound when no one around. Believing nothing or no man steps forward on this ground. Coyotes bite, scorpion might. Snake rattle, feral cattle. A lonesome arrowhead, from battle, hunt or game? Like tell tale footprints of a warrior looking to maim. 

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