A Funny Thing

It is a funny thing:

There are futures to build

On foundations poured in blood.

There are dreams nearly over the horizon,

Nearly home.

And yet it tears:

I want to be gone.


There is a western wind

Pulling at my heart,

Space, open and free.


Maybe like a dead cow

On the plains of Nebraska

In a February freeze,



Maybe, as a whale breaching in the dawn

Close to Maui,

To early for the tourist cameras,

Simply for the joy.


It is a funny thing:

A truck-stop waitress, at dawn,

Sells me a cup of coffee,

Eggs, over medium,

Thick sliced bacon and hash-browns,

Maybe even reasonable Sourdough toast, with strawberry Jam.

She calls me “honey”.


And in that moment,

She is closer than the people I know,

Have known for years,

Who think me eccentric.

Who sit and watch,

Wondering if I can pull it off:

That vision which is mine, in solitude.

Which is shared in building

That which is their home too.

They never ask to help.


That I do understand is part of my eccentricity.

I love them like strangers in an alley.

They have honor too.

There is a dream,

my part will be built.


But right now, right at this moment,

I would rather be in the high meadows,

Where Elk graze,

Where dawn rises slow over the eastern mountains.

Where new music floats through my mind like a breeze from dawn.

I would rather be where

The winds blow free.


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