lexicon of movement

Bitterroot Mountains, Montana

little soft patch,
extinct logger town,
the blunt force of ax blades,
making for warm nights,
hide me in the corner of the mountain's clavicle,
while i try to make silent the voice of the hypocrite who lived inside me,
now trying to earn every blister of a brush stroke,
learn every angle,
several yesterdays ago - i wrote down exactly what i want from this snow globe,
today - shaking up the dust,
tomorrow - running off into some new scenic sunrise,

me and a backpack,
a brushstroke and chord notes,
steel toes and leather gloves,
running face first into midnight morning,
with or without the slender heron flying over head