by Natalie Narváez

The valley looks rusted.
In certain places the clay shimmers
like rose quartz.
I can hear the wind whistling
from the crevices of the rock.
It smells fresh out there.
But in certain places,
I catch the scent of metal and wood.
The air is dry on my tongue.
I do not go as far as to taste the clay.
The earth is gritty beneath my feet,
in my hands and under my nails.
It calls out to me and invites me to explore.
I can see history written on these rocks.
I hear the howls and count the stars,
like others before me.
I can tell this land is special.

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