Violet green swallows reflect and glide,
Following riparian green
That esses and turns beyond
That house over there.
Once nine hundred souls shared mail,
Pocks of old claims reveal little else
Than tailings, run like old rouge on the cheek of the mountain.
A ribbon of Switzerland Trail
Connected dust-dry hearts
With worries from home.
Townsend's Solitaire breaks with reckless song
In aimless flight.
Spider's web strikes lightning against the haze of pine.
The highest green meadow glows
It's the last place sun will illuminate
Before dark sweeps thickly over me,
A cowel in which to fly
Riparian violet green
Over mountain mahogany
Rooted in scree.
(©Kat Bradley-Bennett 7/4/99)