Colorado Journey

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.