With my windows open, I smell the sage wafting in from Peters Canyon,
Or maybe beyond.
I smell the sage and the whole history of sage and the experience of that sage.

How many coyotes have brushed against you? Or shed a rabbit’s blood on you?
How many hikers have spat upon you? Or pissed upon you?
How many wildfires have you endured? How many rains enjoyed?

Has anyone ever spoken to you?
What did they say?
And what did you say in return?

The thick summer air sticks to my skin, and you are in the air, and you are on my skin.
You are on my outside.
I breathe and you are on my inside.
You are becoming me.
I am...