Earth meets sky in a flat rise tilting
like a sedimental last gasp. The wind
is a part of it all, a synechdoche of
granite-gray air and niobrara-gray hills
shrouded in the dust of always was.

Time touches with a brush of mule
deer hooves across a mixed palette
of buffalo grass. Tell me, the wind says,
what is the wisdom in tomorrow? Born
in the moment, I am always is.

The highway tries to cut the Earth,
toward the west where it meets the sky
and east where it meets the ground.
It beetles along, a river of mechanical ants
running away and away to never will be.

(This poem is protected under copyright law. All rights reserved.)