The stillness outside town

The road to Trujillo passes nothing
but pistol-pitted speed signs.
Asphalt twists
in deference to property line,
a rancher in crusted boots
stands bored sentinel.

I drive slower than the limit,
the sun slides
from ears to shoulder
in the rear view mirror.
Only an occasional juniper
and piñon break into shadow.

I am a small peregrine,
dumbstruck over quiet scrub.
I hover, I am restless.
I carry the hope of a next meal.

The land spreads in lumps,
some places covered in flat-ringed lichen,
layered in gold and black sand
underneath the constant wave of dry grass.

These plains don't care about me.
They wait for something,
a meteor to escape the skies,
a bulldozer to level small dips,
turn them free.