205. The Art of Tumbling

Through the red dust on the front windshield,
we see the bush-- a dried sphere of branches
as wide as the station wagon-- as it bounds
and rolls across the road in front of us.

We laugh in bewilderment,
pointing,
staring at the small roots
that the wind pull free from the dry land.

The tumbleweed rolls into the mud flats
where the tide rises when its at its highest
for the month and continues onward,
occasionally dipping out of sight
but popping back up seconds later,
still full of momentum
with nothing to stop it
as it plows on toward the ocean
and beyond our sight.