I am the warm air rising from the ground

in the city, I am the burning asphalt.

I am the sigh of passing cars

on the freeway, I am the rainbow in the puddles.

I am memory and thought wheeling

like twin ravens of old.

The traveler at the crossroads, but also the crossroads

The man in the tent, the dog on the highway

The wolf, the crow, the burning eye

The spear, the gun, the echo of laughter

I am the feet that walk the road

ever turning

The hat pulled low to hide

a cragged face.