Sunday Drive
Sunday Drive
It was a Sunday drive,
High on the Kiamichi trail,
When an overlook was spied,
And out of the car we bailed.
(The sun danced low
On purple evening hills)
I looked down at the green valley,
Curls of evening meat scents
Wafted from stone pits of fire,
Amid postage stamp crops and tents.
(Wondered did I if the insect sized
People were looking up at our road.)
As I raised my gaze, an Indian maiden
Stood beside me smiling
In her long braided blue-black hair,
Her chamois beaded dress, most beguiling.
(And I asked her if she was an apparition,
But no answer was forthcoming.)
We lingered long at the outlook,
And I looked down one last time,
When my awe-filled eyes did finally arise,
The Indian lady was gone, and I
Was left with one long eagle feather
Cradled In my arm.
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