Crosses

along the rusted railroad tracks
in the salted sands by the desert shrubs
runs a line of poles

wooden crosses
cradling only the telephone wires
and the ravens

each wishes for something grander
more glorious
than the splintering and drying heat of the sun

the small patch of dirt
the trickling electronic voices
the steel and the jackrabbits

I am one of those crosses.
Aren't we all.