| Southwest Dreamtime (Magnificent Vista) Stretched like a watercolor hide Across the opening of the sky, Light rippling through the eerie-colored clouds, A storm is riding like a warparty Across the western horizon. Wind flails and, and like a prairie hen I crouch low, feathers ruffled, Watching. The sage is greener under the slate edge of the rain, The mountains brick and periwinkle-- Colors somehow brighter in the low, grey light. Tall grass bends in homage To a conquering weather-god, Wave upon wave of worshipping heads bowing Low before the wind. The scars of man upon the nearest hills Are not so plain under these clouds, Fast-moving, hovering like primeval angels Or avenging spirits above the earth. This land is forever. We will pass. (c) A.K.Miller |