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.