Wichita


Across these newly whited plains
I see a distant hawk
The feather falls from its plume
like a tear
the harvest is plentiful
I hear the pasture lands
And Rich is in the background
with his hammered dulcimer
Lines of energy stretch
where trees should stand
and barbed wire hems in
the beauty of the stampede
for church-goers and party-throwers
they are the same
joy falls from their lips like rain


Copyright 2003 by pauly hart