Land and no escape.

so, the layers of the view
from the window, broken down
a tree, stark branches

(but that lovely dip near the elbow)
and the shallow roots
in this climate, that climate
leaning, how could it do anything but

silhouetted against
a shade of perfect, mango sky
and quite content watching time pass
and from this direction
the sun was setting (always setting)

beyond, an empty
and never-ending stretch
measured by telephone poles

crosses held up by strings
(her mind followed them
to the contented homes
she would never see)

in the distance
a range of lonely mountains
mingling with subtle clouds
that (for a moment) overlapped

and she scanned the emptiness
the crosses and the tree
and back through the glass
to the pen in her hand, and thought
(as ink on the page)

though part of the same landscape
and covered by an umbrella sky
inevitably, they each stood alone