Caravan
The desert below me is white, cold, white.
Tiered and rippled be the whimsies of the wind.
I cannot see the contrails of the other caravans that have passed before,
Their memories carried off to distant climes.
I would like to imagine that this terrain is a new frontier I traverse.
That the earth, in its infinity has no end of new frontiers.
But the desert is common,
and white, cold white.
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