Friday, July 23, 2010

Stretch of History

Second installment on The Oregon Trail poems:

The bone-white wagon tongue,
its carriage long ago disintegrated
and fallen into splintery planks,
laps thirstily at the dry sod along the
edge of the trail, finding only
parched earth and no water, burrs
and beetles instead of hydration.
The dry stalks of Indian grass,
burned rust red in the summer sun,
clink and snap against each other
as if an ordained primordial rhythm,
mimicking the clicking of ‘hoppers
as they pass from stalk to stalk
and me, on another visit to this trail.
More prairie than desert, but still
more a place to leave behind, only
insects, lizards, hawks and the curious
chickadees seem to make it home,
this dusty stretch of history.


Gillena Cox said...

Wow; so provokatively written; i could feel the dryness and taste the dust as i read along, watching the derelicts along the way

Warren said...

Hi Gillena - I am so glad the image comes across - it would be a failure otherwise. Thank you!