Deep the ruts up the hill through the brush
dry the country for it is August
no water in sight
if you are thirsty, quite the fright

Deer and elk roaming the land
two blue jays squawking on hand
dry and fall is at hand
this is not the promised land

Small trickling stream half-mile away
know the land and you are OK
sparse the shade of a tree
friendly if you can identify what you see

Just barren and wasted land
only fit for those who want and who can
thrive and exist with know-how
most learning this just say wow

Soon it will be drier and dustier, ainít no tale
a cow walking leaves a dust trail
The land I call home, land I love
but to survive, need a boon from above.

By Tom (tomWYO@aol.com)

Waiting for September


My Treasure Chest

Things That Fly

Grand Design

If I Could Start Over

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