by sarah endsley
In eastern Washington, early August
when the sundown smokes the sky into a purple haze,
clouds begin to disappear
and the gentle sloping Columbia basin
slightly resembles your face.
Beyond my lazy reclining stance, there is a stage
and hippies shout, throwing glow sticks.
It’s dark now, clearly you see
the inherent distraction.
Even the grass smells like your scent.
The air feels like your touch,
sweeping my hair,
lifting up my shirt as I lay and write this song of praise for you.