Invading the Mountain in Combloux
They felt nothing as they
gouged into the pasture's soft
body, tearing away layer
after layer, dismantling
the stillness. When they were finished
they lit up their cigarettes
and roared off in their trucks.
Now, there will be no mornings,
just the sharp glare of light
against asphalt. There will be
no hushed twittering of birds,
no stamping of hooves
or distant jangle of cow bells.
They have assassinated the breath
of freshness, the green flames washing the air,
the odors of dung and flowers.
There will be no slow awakening,
drifting into consciousness
with a pulsing chorus of secret voices,
a tender vibrato of leaves
and crickets. There will be no changing
colors. One day will become
just like another. We will move
more quickly then, exiled
to a country where there will be
no refuge from ourselves.
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Issue #29, October, 2002 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.