September 8 by The Running Son
·•★★ heart land ★★•·
Across these great plains, the wind
and grass move as one,
and I move as one requesting
a fresh path to the America
I once had and loved, just past this knoll,
perhaps just beyond the horizon.
Native blood stains long dried
in black patches
amidst rolling grain remain a fact of
invading chaff: the labored drain
of hunted breath down
a frozen back mountain pass,
or the distant reign of the musket crack,
echos tearing the silence,
that last blanket of grace, saving
a Continental Divide from displacing
where red, and white newly forming
a mind for ravaging, staked claim.
by Jim Aldrich (:
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.