The Bus

A lone vulture circled 
carrion now quiet
along a lost desert road.

Carmen played her guitar
singing a lugubrious song
of desperate lone lands
where blue sage grew 
for my Shaman’s magical wands.

She cannot strum.
Wind does not blow.
Rain does not come.
Rivers can’t flow.

Tarantulas silent under 
their rock for cool.

The vulture had long ago left.
The blue bus was leaving.
Carmen finished her song.

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