Friday, March 13, 2015

Sleeping In a West Virginia Field

Mourning doves stir and coo
In early light draped pale
By mist and the dew
Grew thick between our toes.

We had slept that night
In an open field picked blind
After a late night's drive
Through countless hallows
Lit by the fires of ten thousand tires
Burning wildly in a junkyard heap.
A breath of hell like a Bruegel print
As the flames flared tight
To the side of the road.

By noon the huddled hills were
Sweeps of green and hummingbirds
Swooped to a dulcimer lilt
Beneath a leafy canvas,
Beneath a translucent sky.