Untitled the book forth then bring it to the trough. I speak its name under rough bark. The tires roll on without me. This song is singing and the song knows no field to sleep in. I've been following it for years now, and finally a pause before the eject button is pressed and I'm a flying back into my body's nose dive. Where are the valleys I stabbed with ladders? Where is the sky that has slowed to a crawl, rocks pushed into it's pocket to sink in some ocean or another? I'm done with it and it feels like a million hours have passed beyond any naming. Now off toward the north again. Toward my home, my land, my language. . .

Upon reading the latest incarnation of my poems, I am compelled to drive northward, back to my reservation to see how the poem echoes in that desert. I want to find a place where the red rocks will face the sun without looking away or squinting. Perhaps in a cornfield. Just someplace, I can feel connected again, to my roots if you will, to hear the blue birds rustle in the juniper trees, the coyotes howling in the distance under the clear blue night, sheep bells clanking and muted by wool in the corral.

Cicadas.

The drone of summer in Tucson, 100+ degrees outside my duplex. Writing again. Updating CV, feeling like I just landed from outer space and this body is brand new to me. I am thankful for all the places I've been, the great poets I've read alongside, the vistas and valleys I've seen from the plane window. But for now, I am enjoying the serenity of being trapped indoors with books to read, music to download, and a book length poem to finish. I put my hands up in front of me wondering if I am really in one place again.