I would weep to see it –
to see the measureless mountains
meander my direction,
to see them silently
shift their weight and will their way
out from the West
toward me –
would that I could see it,
see those mountains move.
I would weep to see it.
Instead
this red land lends itself
to wild wending wheat fields
and plains, repeated like platitudes,
plains plastered with prairie grass
each one laid out on this platter of flat earth.
Still the sun sings in this city,
The birds too –
birds which have been born
and last here for a mere breath –
Even though I bet
they won’t ever
glimpse the hint of Colorado gilded crests
or ride by Rocky Mountain ridge lines.
I hear how wholesome the birds sing
and the heavy flutter of flapping wings.
Perhaps,
The birds’ singing sounds similar to their weeping,
Their wanton weeping at what they’re seeing.
(1/30/21)
The Lark Ascends 