Pinyon Smoke
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“You kidnapped a Live out of Sante Fe forest and you want me to hide him for you?” An older woman’s voice woke me from a gloriously empty sleep. I found I was sleeping on a three person couch that smelled faintly of rose and thrift shop.
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There’s magic in those hills. When they dust up in glowing gold. The cliff faces shimmer at sunrise, brilliant cinnabar and salmon stripes. Ice hangs right behind my lungs, producing the only cloud in an empty, oceanic blue sky for miles. Pine needles and thin aspen leaves crunch under foot.
Chapel Orahamm 