Country Roads

 

Country roads don’t take me home anymore;

it’s the hawks.

In a beat-up truck

throwing dust into the sky,

I’d watch black specks against blue

wind-hunting rodents.

Now, while I walk

through the  hills

cutting across the grass

I see monster hawks

in the high branches of old dead poplars

planted for windbreaks.

The bird’s weight makes the spire bend.

They are always still,

watching, waiting, with eyes

that follow: dark birds of prey

in the top most branches.

But, it is only when I walk,

and only when I walk alone.

 

first published in Wind Row, Fall, 1984.

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About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

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