Camp in the sandy wash bed.
Dip our toes in cool streams.
Chris mentions the monsoons.
Not a gamble in this heat. Maybe next month.
I might pluck the cholla from my boots,
might burn them off at dinner time.
Fire side sand mandalas. Boots pitchforked
and hanged over the blazing river rock circle.
Chris mentions scorpions, then diamondbacks.
I’m fucking barefoot here.
Nine o’clock moonrise. It starts on time.