Coulee
A cut through earth descends the plain,
Winding, twisting, a serpentine vein.
Through folded, golden hills, and rolling seas of grass,
A sage filled chasm carves a path.
Bedded doe with fawn rest in afternoon shadows,
Below the tops where roaring wind blows.
Meadowlark song carry in this theater,
I walk alone, a foreign creature.
Above are ancient rings of stone,
Where Blackfoot fires charred bison bone.
This is a coulee where spirits roam,
Within these plains, each a sacred home.
