Pristine

Black backs in tall grass

the wind, a gentle kiss

The assuring bawl of the momma cow

to calves who have been remiss

The badger, you might see him

Don’t tread upon his ground

Just walk on by, avert your eye

But scoot if you hear his sound

Purple petals of the lupine

The cleansing of the sage

Indian paintbrush, barbed-wire rust,

All touched with winds of age

Beauty hardly imagined,

Unknown by some and unseen

Red shining bluffs,

the sight a must...

The calling of the pristine

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