The finger of Pierce Point
points towards Siberia.
Feels like the end of the world.
When a Northwest wind
chills my ears, I could almost
ride the updraft and chase
the setting sun.
At a thousand miles per hour,
night would never catch me.
The bloody fire in the sky
always just ahead,
painting icy mountains
and gray cities
in its rosy glow.
Unfortunately, I'm too slow.
I turn away from the Pacific view
and walk back past
the rutting elk and jutting rocks
the shattered cypress
and shuttered barn
to where the trail
begins and ends:
the parking lot.
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