Bleached bones laid bare
and arch skyward
in the hot sun
where the plants grow low.
In these rolling hills
the desire to exist
without contemplations
of inadequacies, future decisions
and past incompetency
gnaw outwards in.
How finite the time
feels when the forethought
of this human life
abuts the rawness
of lives led without
these reflections.
When the sole purpose of the day
is driven by the next flower,
the close watering hole,
the final resting ground,
one last mate on the open plain,
a spot in the shade.
All the talk subsides eventually;
maybe in the silence is where
the two worlds collide.
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