Billow of drifting clouds
Block the bright.
Rain, one drop, and then another falls on my cheek. and
over the West Mesa,
a layer of clouds forms above a layer of sun.
Light changes everything.
Landscape softer
Shadows longer.
Along the path, tiny purple crocuses creep through mulch of
dead cottonwood leaves,
Growth, life, death, decay.
Endless circles of endings, beginnings
spin and spin round and
spin again.
If all is change,
What is real?
Maybe nothing.
Maybe all.
Answers hidden in this land of paradox,
dense with mystery,
where the space is Thin.
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