I lie on my back in the garden, assorted rocks and sand below, typical of the New Mexico I know. The fire casts shadows on my pen. The wind makes the light flicker from orange to black, and then back again. White lights spattered against the broken sky and an empty bottle lies next to my side. Yet my glass is still full, strong fomented grapes within, and as the heat from the fire, wavers with the branches… I begin to tire.
Caught up within the wind, I stare at an unwavering pile of clementines and wine. I peel one by one, and toss them in, while sacrificing the peels to the fire, watching it accept with desire.
A flash of light streaks across the sky, and it is at this moment that I wonder why, more do not join in these times gone by.
