Flashing by my window in the desert,

Coming down first before the land rises up I see,

A dead, gnarled cottonwood bent over itself,

A white parched river bed, dreaming of water ghosts,

White cloud towers making the coming blades glisten,

Blue-black mesas dotted with sage,

And that uneven road behind me, curling back on itself,

As if going back for something it forgot.