NATIVES

 

I look to the ridges for clarity,

for a sign of an approaching storm

gathering somewhere north—

 

trace silhouetted skeletons

of drought-killed oaks, branched

like Challenge Butter bucks.

 

As my eyes escape the first waft

of chaos and claustrophobe,

I leave my flesh to rest among

 

all the old cowmen with nothing to do

but watch the learning process

over and over again.

 

The Natives retreated to the hills,

but at the top of mountain peaks,

there’s no place left to go.

 

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