Meteorites burn through the cold November night. The Atlantic's breathing waves and pounding rhythms are lost in the howling desert nocturne. Where the same bright showers splay across the sky and a woman lies upon a blanket breathing and pushing. Her man with rifle close by, is the keeper of the fire, warding off the yelping coyotes smelling blood in the air - and innocence being born.
The stars glide, then fade within the dark dome above our lives;
Faint flickerings - disappearing - winding in final trails of dust.
Beneath these falling stars
There is a scream, there is a whimper and whispering promises.
The coyotes cry sas a newborn suckles mother's breast and ocean tides recede.
- John Lunar Richey

KORREKTUREN ÃœBERMITTELN