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.