What a hoot!
North Colorado's forty ugly miles;
a rolling belly of plain,
freckled with towns so small,
it's not worth the ink
to print their names, then rising to nipples of earth
pointed to the sky's moist mouth.
Fuzzy trees clutch the earth,
hiding from the west wind.
A scenic point:
rocks stacked like dinosaur dung,
await removal.
Me, in Wyoming?
A gas.
There's nothing but that sky,
657 Black Angus cattle
and a rider outlined against the mountains.
The miles are like a nagging melody
on the way to Cheyenne.
Over the Rockies,
clouds hang like phantom peaks
How high they are
only the wind knows.
As they drift,
snow threatens.
I am miles from the safety of a gas station
or even an official Colorado rest stop.
I can make Nebraska by night
if the weather holds.
In the distance,
the rider raises his hat.
I am a lone rider also
and raise my hat to the wind.
No snow shall stop my journey.
