A fluid commentary
serves as pontoon
from one peyote
landscape to the
next.
A goddess
dancing backwards
into view,
deemed goddess
by the white
of her regency
gown, the bizarre
impracticality of
golden sandals
on the track
of ash and
shell.
A thorn bush
smolders and sings,
flares into
a chorus
that overawes the
frightened, silenced
birds.