August in Montana
The wind brings a scent of rain and of fire,
an incongruous mix borne from the west,
that paints the sky brilliant as the fuchsia sun sets.
Gray coats the
mountains and sifts through the pines,
a tangible flavor of wood smoke and autumn
in the smell as it lingers in canyon valley bottoms.
Summer is leaving, and with her the warmth,
the grasses are turning their green stems to gold,
the fire devours all down red maw and throat.
The wind brings the message that fire has come
Now chill autumn is here and sweet summer is done.
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Montana Rail Link
Iron thunder rumbles down the track
as the trains come rushing by.
The cottonwoods bend their branches
in the wind of their passing.
Coal, logs and lumber
all headed east or west,
the movement of economy,
the progress of technology.
The horns sound out a Doppler-style farewell.
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Today the sky a water-brushed blue,
Changing leaves whisper in frost-tinted breezes
Each breath of summer seems as though the last.
-------------------------
Sunrise
Glow of pink racing me
over the east horizon
mile by mile I drive
and the white lines
mark my passing.
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9/18
She's changing,
that cottonwood out front
with her toes nestled in the autumn grass,
with her green hair turning to gold.
She listens to the wind,
and drops her leaves like gifts at our feet,
blowing across the sidewalk,
catching in the corners of the building
as she sings the song of winter coming,
the color draining,
the stillness of her blood a golden amber.
-----------------------
The mountains sit
holding the clouds close
like white fleecy shawls
wrapped around their broad shoulders
against the morning's chill.
The frost traces the
brittle spears of grass
and my breath colors the air
in shades of gray
but fades away as the clouds
with the coming of the day.
-----------------------------
I am a Voyager into the Unknown
The suds swirl
like a spiral galaxy
counter-clockwise
in my shower drain.
Echoes of the
Brandonberg Concertos
resound in my head
as I watch the water
lapping back at my toes.
Time to call a plumber
Crystal dust shimmers down
As the morning sky lightens
To a shade of paler hue.
Dancing motes of diamond
In a breath of December air.
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