Yakima to Ellensberg
July 21, 2010
Mottled and tustled blows
the Spring lint of fields;
hills blown dry in Summer’s bosom.
Little drunk parch-ed promise
whispers her secrets.
Moving over the gentle curves of
her brown back, full-breasted,
bloated not from watered spring
but gloating in perpetual want –
satisfied with less; less than satisfied
having drawn her drink from wells unseen.
I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills…