Desert Hymn

The sound of thunder rumbling, repeated like a thousand artillery roars across the desert. Hardened hooves setting prints into the earthen clay, washed over like the ocean current through time.

Locked in their eyes appear to be the souls of lost angels, roaming the desert. Their heads a perfect medallion. They wear the fur on their chest like medieval royalty. Listen close and hear their heart beat in the dark like frogs on water banks.

Racking gunfire in the distance appear as a sea of shooting stars.The gunpowder crackling like fireworks on Independence Day.

Screeching metal. Tracks laid out across half a continent. The engine screams, churning and coughing out a great black smoke that spirals into the sky like a great plague.

It blazes at the speed of light—racing as rapidly as one’s thoughts of his entire life just before death—sketching in its path an armor will of man.

In the dust where the bones of the bison are buried by the sands, in the reflection of the rusted metal, sunlight trickling against it like the drops of a steady rain, ghosts illuminate the air, dancing and singing and rising and you can still hear the baseline of the bison hooves somewhere roaring like the word of God rupturing the earth.