The Convert
I passed her once, on my way,
so much a part of the landscape it was
hard to distinguish her from the
sagebrush and prairie grass
With each footstep she traced the terrain,
passing cattle guards and wind farms,
the whoosh of cars rushing by
Her pack was weathered, faded by sun, patterned with
striations from wind and rain,
her face even more so
Every now and then
a car will stop to ask if she’d like a ride,
to get where she’s going faster
She asks if they’d like to walk,
to get there slower
I passed her once, and asked her,
and she asked me,
and I did, and I still do
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