I could never live long in town,
Unhappy without a horizon,
Homesick for a dirt lane,
An open field with treeline,
A hill clean against the sky.
Yet this is no wilderness.
A paved road runs behind the knob.
When the wind blows from the south
I can hear the report of the climb,
The throttled rush of the straightaway,
Truck tires sticky on asphalt.
But the west wind prevails.
The thaw and a warm rain
Will come soon to soften the field.
I'll hear the creek in the valley then
Rushing to measure the continent,
Mad for the gulf and the sea.
I'm waiting for that,
Trusting the long view,
Standing before it.
