— Nick Butterfield
The Big Horn Sheep in Echo Canyon
Will pretend they don’t see us.
Maybe, one will glimpse at my bare feet
Knowing I could run the rocky ledges
along side them.
En route to nowhere, we’ll stop at a Ghost Town.
Yet we are the ghosts
And each year the town shrinks from us
Someday returning to the vein of Gold it came from
Now a hundred years.
My white skin will return like a dog to it’s master.
It was the salt that made me white as the desert floor
that I am,
as though I never left.