Bluegrass trees and evergreen grass
blow in a wolf-howling wind.
They sing at the dawn with the cricketsong
as they wait for red-sky day to begin.
And offer me tricky coyote tales
and red-mountain sawtooth ranges
—for the farther West I go
I find naught but arid-air changes.
And then I am over an ocean steel
forged from cold water and spite;
yet I know I'll follow these west-waters home
after I finish this wayward flight.