Bleached

That echo in the canyon...
Old stone from bones.
Erosion.
And the long dead
bones became me, 
antelope and the fly.

That scarring and cause...
Water. Then some. 
The burden of beautiful.

I shout and dream.
Still the stillness presses on me. 
The immense indifference.
Hinting. 

We are linen on the line forgotten in the sun.