Dry

I wish I could tell you what it's like to be a raisin
Moisture squeezed from every spoke
It seems so cruel of Mother Nature
To flail the flesh from off my dry white bones
But does a forest mind the burning?
Does a mountain care to crumble to the sea?
The natives of this land long understood this
And as I ride their home
Their long and interloping roads
I feel myself take on their blood
It wells up through red stones and black, black tires

Yesterday I got to swim in Lake Powell.  It was a pretty transcendent and poetic experience.  It had been a long day; a good day, I rode a lot of the way with Shanon and had some interesting conversation.  We both faded at the end and the last 3 or 4 miles were pretty rough.  But on to the lake.  First there was a nice walk down over sandstone.  Then I changed into my swimming clothes and waded into ankle deep mud, thick and rich like for a mud bath.  There were trees that I was swimming on top of, kind of pokey and scratchy.  The water was muddy at first but then clear, and it was a perfect temperature, but colder deep down.  It felt very primal, as if I was very close to what nature intended.  There was a flock of small white birds that danced around me.  I felt as if if I were to die that night I would be perfectly OK with that.  The water flowed past me, the wind kicking up a set of small waves as I stood neck deep on top of trees.  There was a beautiful sunset and an arch in the distance of deep red rock.  It was just right.  Everything was just absolutely right.