It was June

But a bruised September sky

Swirls in windblown puffs

Across bodies brewing cloaks of fog.

My only source of light,

A dim sliver squeezing through an arrow slit.

Shafts of sunlight gather through the clouds,

But dust and prairie smoke

Flutter around the night air;

And it pours rain.

Tortured rain.

Like a torch flower.


For it was more than half a mile distant

From the pretty roses.

Dust bathing and

Dark mounds and

Dank walls surround me.

And my sleep is dreamless,

Like all the dreams have been used up

Long ago

Because "I'm dying already"

~D. Chadwick and W. Newcott.

National Geographic 1993