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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required It seems a shame that you're not here To share my evening stroll with me, As I walk down this gravel road That takes off just outside of town. Two pheasants flush from bar ditch pools (The grassy soup of last night's rain) Just as I cross the railroad tracks And seem to pass some phantom line That separates my world from theirs. Straight as an arrow (as crows fly?) The road swoops long from West to East Though now its western half is paved, Joins gravel in Blunt's rustic heart (Right where the newer road veers north) . First down one bank, then up it goes, Across the stream cut valley floor. A small bridge spans its docile flow So pliant now to man's intent. A meditative sweet montage Of birds and frogs has filled the air A sound for those "with ears to hear" That whispers softly, "I love you" And helps me to say 'Yes! ' to life - The gravel's grate against my shoe, Even the drone of diesel trucks That gather speed against the banks Do not intrude, somehow belong. A fox negotiates the field By following the hidden stream. She trots as if she clearly knows That I observe her every move, That "safety" equals "distance from" (Here men are seldom without guns, Her pelt could be worth quite a lot) . The stream's ravine is close at hand And prudently she disappears. A hole breaks through the clouds above, A giant restless eye that looks For something that has not been found, For something that the world needs now, Revealing angry flecks of red Escaping from a setting sun That cannot penetrate the shroud. I know this emptiness and rage And yet, somehow, that too belongs. A passing man and I both wave. And though but little dust gives rise He still drives wide to give me air. I feel some kind of brotherhood, A love perhaps we have to share (For we both know we have no claim) . Yet each one hopes she'll smile at him, And wonders if it could be that Her heart will miss him when he's gone. At length I turn to start for home And like an afterthought of day There's still a trembling shade of green, Emerging buds on road side trees. A light rain falls from pillowed clouds As soft as gnat wings on my skin, And blurs nearsighted vision more Than if my lenses were bee eyes And makes Blunt's night-lights shine like gems. Then suddenly, beyond my view, The setting sun bursts through somehow Reflecting subatomic blaze On otherwise engulfing clouds. The whole horizon seems aflame! Even the birds and frogs are mute! The cosmic eye has shut, and I, I cross the phantom line once more... And South Dakota ends its day. Brian Johnston March 1990 Written on a memorable walk near Blunt, South Dakota where I have farms. Literally written as I walked on scrap paper. Everything described in this poem actually happened on that one walk. What a gift these poems are to me and I hope also to you.
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