dust settles over
the bony mountains.
As if it is morning mist,
as if it knows beauty
like the Rockies do.
I hate
how the sunrise casts its alien haze
over dirt;
the infinite nothing
that is this land.
As if it knows something
about morning glory.
Or how dew shines on alfalfa.
How it tries to be golden--
to impersonate
10,000 karat grasslands,
but dirt cannot be gold--
dirt cannot sway free.
I hate how quick
the sun sets
while the light stays on
in the north--
to see it
just a little longer.