FILLING TOWNS

                                        i

They will be looking for yellow metal,
grease-stained men with steel shanks
and wide blades that friction with the earth
will shine like silver against her gentle slope.
In time, she will lay flat and lifeless, supine,
to be plowed and plowed until unrecognizable—
until she looks like town.
                                                             Meanwhile,
all the wild cattle, all the birds, all the native
ghosts know the way through the brush
to the ridgetops, and they will watch and shake
their heads once more in dismay—ever since
the Red Coyote came and felled an oak.

                                        ii

There will be talk of growing things,
roads and water, jobs and taxes,
prosperity for everyone—mitigation
and litigation to make it alright. Good
friends will forget how to listen
and judges will lean toward money
and votes, dreaming of sleeping
with the sketches of planners
                                                             where she used to be.

                                        iii

This is how we’ve tamed the West,
raping landscapes, extracting value.
We have learned nothing
                                                             over and over again
as we grow senseless, without feeling
for the ground that has fed us graciously—
busy felling oaks, redwoods,
and sycamores—busy filling towns.