In the gut of the caliche stained wash, wild tobacco is said to still grow, to still reach for the plump sky. There in the smoke whisp of shale cracked songs, that wind that shuffles past the strands of ephedra, fibrous- unleashed, the mica god rises. If you offer smokes they say it comes, like a wind, a shift in the dunes, in the stink of gravel under the bare foot. They say it will show you mountains.
