Letter To A Friend
 
Cloudy here today.
The foothills though opened up later in the afternoon.
Some of them carried the sunlight well
as if they were huge furry, blonde animals at rest,
the rounded tops their backs,
the wind carving generous swaths
through their fur and I remember,
I remember times like that
when the wind turned tall yellow grasses into fur,
fur on the backs of the hills,
huge and gentle animals at rest
seemingly so close you could touch them, pet them,
but, of course, did not
because to do so would have been to awaken them;
and they needed their sleep,
needed their dreams,
the dreams that came to cleanse,
cleanse, such a cleansing as could only be needed
by such huge blonde animals at rest,
these huge, gentle giants,
the desert foothills needing thousands,
thousands of years of years to heal,
and so to touch, well, kindness forbids,
humanity says no.  Let them be.  Let them be.
And so we do.  We drive on by watching,
caring, never forgetting, but driving on by
because to touch would not be a kindness
and we love them so.