by Melisande Luna

Created on: May 24, 2007

In chill dawn steel fog
holds industry's stench to earth,
squealing flocks of strange birds
poke their rusty beaks in oil sands
and suck.

At sloe chapparal passes
choked with thorny tumbleweeds,
my feet beat heavy soil
as I think of mud weight,
blowouts
and the trail ahead.

Winter in the fields is not unlovely
in stark light,
iron beasts rise on the horizon
as I breathe their fetid air.

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