He walks tattered terrain that crosses Mojave As I pass and splash him with invisible tide Washing him with time to talk to Agave. Walking hot summits is certainly no hobby, As voices crackle from deep inside, Hearing tattered terrain that crosses Mojave. Cold are the firebirds that he is robbing, Though he cannot see them through dreary dry eyes Still he sees time to talk with agave. Shoe leather soul, through scrub brush he slovenly treks-- I head for a pullout when I decide to watch sand storming man cross the Mojave. Las Cruces New Mexico, end of the Mojave. Part of me wishes I were him I confide, To have the time to talk with agave. Now I see him the King Salmon; I the crappie garnering nothing but his dark ghostly guide. He walks tattered terrain that crosses Mojave, Still he has time to talk with agave.