Mojave Reverie
by Michael Dwayne Smith

A thousand glassy stars
in Horseshoe Lake,

then three coyote yowls
down the riverbed,

and the moon
a hundred feet away.

I can feel cottonwood
bending into

Milky Way’s spiral arms.
I can say "church"

and mean this place,
as in "of worship,"

any place removed from
human error, terror,

or harm, any space
alive with emptiness.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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