That road through the country

Unspooling under a dark mountain

Massages my shins like wine.


Rose-colored cliffs protest

My black-and-white ideas.

The day in the city is over.


Old trees on the hillsides crack

Their knuckles into the air,

Pulling at lyres of light.


Birds glide on updrafts

Of the wound I released.

The day in the city is over.


Grasses bend in stress,

Winds unknot muscles,

Leaning hard as a masseuse.


Wheat, a promise panting

Through the throat of the valley,

Nods. The day in the city is over.


We wait under the sun,

Enduring impossible delays

Of this growth. If


The thresher holds

Our heads up to the sickle,

The day in the city is over.


But all is well.

Still on the way, believing

Earthbeats know their sway. 






by Ryan Gregg

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