Busted boots on a Texas hill.

There they were, the naked
flowers unseen
laid out on grey and brown
rocks and brambles
sunning on a dry hill
once a sea bed
but now a hard stone fort.
No one was there
to take a picture then
it was just as lonesome
though,
back when ponderous dark
icthyosaurs with eyes as big
as manhole covers
swam overhead.
This hill in a hot place,
with spanish bayonet plants thrusting upward
like their savage namesakes,
pushing their flowers to the sun
hoping to touch dry air
from the bottom of a shallow
ocean, is just as still
and invites the traveler to
sigh
and move on.