Porcupine Ridge simmer down boy

the conscious mind was strange indeed
burdened, yoked, pulled taut as rope
by memories pressed deep and
fleeting as empires, or smoke on the water.

he thinks he is done thinking of her,
and the funny thing about thoughts is
often they are rudderless things,
swirls of sunmotes or dandelions on the breeze.

he is drawn to a stop by a wolf
who swings down hard on dusty ground
again and again, a hammer of paws
as choking dust settles about his shoulders

maul pauses as a tan screen rises
between them, and then drifts off
and thinks it fun; with a jump
he drives his own limbs to the dry earth.