Funnel spider rests in his high hammock,

rain clouds gather

though it could not be more dry,

the sagebrush and last year’s sickle grass whip

in intermittent blasts of wind.

I sit on the brick floor eating sausage,

wet hair blunt after the cut I just gave it,

admiring this spot, its drastic seasonal shift,

and the birds firmly in their nests.

Compared to where I’ve been,

this is a whole other planet.