above strands of
wildflowers, the juniper
charred along
the slopes of a slow
winding canyon.
Hayfields lay themselves down
in the valley; their bodies
stare up into blue-beat eternity.
A mustard stain
of rabbit brush runs
down a small ravine.
How could a freeway be anything
but heartless?
We drive on, wired
to MP3 players, thick smoke
clogging the Beaver Valley.
The Tushar Mountains burn again
on the edge of Armageddon.
A haystack leans, a rail fence
leans, and old tractor rests
under the shade of a spruce
along the almost dry river.
It all looks so forties America.
Oh hell, maybe things are only
half as bad as they seem.
Long after anyone still knows
the sound of gravel popping
under tire
on the way to check the back forty
there will be video games,
chat rooms, cyber sex, maybe a pop
-up picture to remind you
of the changing seasons.
--Steve Brown, 2010
