These Hazy Days

Morning on the Plain

I'd never realized how beautiful
eastern Washington could be --
now, awash in the light of
a molted whipporwhill's dawn,
the sun gleams pearl-like
amongst the piled clouds.

It's lovely.

The windmills are silent rowers
on the hills.

Scrub brush kneels ardently in the dust,
though tangled in desert stone.

Pawn shops and tire stores
and nameless cargo crates
huddle between the cottonwoods
while European starlings mark,
like black footprints, the sky.

CAT-brand backhoes and Motel 8s
frequent the slick gray roads
but in the distance,
the horizon beams in the
bright orange hues of flame.

Farming is archaic here;
sprawling parsley and dill
wave on to the west for acres.

The clouds are turning blue now,
and there are oh so many fences.

Somewhere, I think, the sky is
choking yellow with burned plastic.

Somewhere a brush fire is catching.

Somewhere strawberries are the dominant
crop, and they're picked for hours
in the hot sun
by dark hands chafed
from lack of privilege.

Somewhere, too, a Cooper's hawk
is stalking a mouse on a plain.

Somewhere apples are forming
on strong boughs.

Somewhere another day is starting,
and somewhere there's not
a single person who knows me as I am.

I'm going there now.

I watch the powerlines fly by.