The hills are heading north against the storm
hunching their shoulders into the bleached wind
and raising ragged peaks to heaven. Ten
And Twenty Acre Plots, With View are torn
to dust and splinters. Rivers thin and clear,
lick color from the sky, skirt claws unsheathed
by secret glaciers. The granite bones beneath
upthrust from ice-rimmed hollows to cold, austere
        The hills are heading north. They leave behind
orange-smeared skies, and pens of placid cattle, acre
lots of asphalt, neon signs, and plastic ferns,            
and muddy ponds, and landfills piled with mediocre
detritus: a warm and undemanding land
whose fields are flat and suitable for planting corn.


L.M. Price




bird of paradise flower