The Proud Hunter

It hasn't rained here in a while.
It's a sign.
there are signs everywhere,
but only with age have I been able
to read them.
In my mind I have left weeks ago:

I'm in the Southwest corner of America,
sleeping in my car;
the cool desert wind blowing
tiny grains of sand over my skin.
I am dreaming of life back home
in the Northeast.
They aren't happy dreams,
but they aren't sad either.
I awake to the sound and rhythm of my pulse
and and take a massive breath of America.
The desert hills, worthy of a Bob Ross painting,
jump at the sky like lines on a polygraph chart.
This land doesn't detect my lies,
and it doesn't want my money.
It welcomes me with open arms and a warm heart
and then I forget about what I gave up,
or where I am going,
or how I will get there.

I put the car in drive
and stare down the two lane stretch
of road leading straight into the sun.
I make amends with myself again
and check the odometer.
The proud hunter hones his sights
on the big prize yet again,
with nothing but a few miles
between him and the kill of a lifetime.

To grab and shake the world with the fury
of a million widows.

To cut the jugular of your oppressor wide enough
to steal it's heart.

To build you own home and life
with your bare hands,
despite the backaches and shortage of supplies.