There is no romance in this land just tiny elf owlets begging in desperate chorus from their hollowed saguaro for their mother’s catch and the ferocious beating of insect wings against the searing air like the dying gasp of an old plodding bass drum Everything is poisonous or stings or pricks or bites Behind the chaparral bush and rare cacti bloom the coiled rattler’s warning thrum With the soul of a poet and the soles of a dead man hiking I’ll walk 700 miles through this place just to hold his hand Out here it's not what we acquire but how shit gets moved around
About the Poet:
Cara Feral is from the high plains of Laramie, Wyoming. She earned a physics degree in Kutztown University. She later dropped out of a full ride scholarship to study astrophysics at Louisiana State University to go hike the Appalachian Trail.Since then she has “thru” hiked The Appalachian Trail two times, the 2600 mile long Pacific Crest Trail and the 3300 mile long Continental Divide Trail. Eventually she wants to be the first trans woman to complete the quadruple crown by hiking the 4600 mile North Country Trail. These days she quarantines inside the cozy confines of her apartment with her cat and boyfriend in Eugene, Oregon.
Leave a Reply