Gates to the Sky

GATES TO THE SKY

Mother Texas
on wheels,
with three daughters
and a hobbler,
climbing
through vast towers
of sweet pine, fir, cedar
and thick stands of cottonwood,
their leaves already brushed with gold;
peering over road's edge,
thousands of feet deep
into dark as dusk shadows;
hopping over washboard ruts
and racing over railroad ties
like tireless children;
swinging tightly around serpentine curves
and spiraling down
mountain sides,
much like the eagles gliding
hot and high above us;
pausing only
to pee and play
and stand near a waterfall,
rushing ice
and magnificent mist
crashing like surf
into the storm drain
under the road.

Mountain passes blurring
each into the other,
high jagged
against the sky;
knifed through solid rock,
by churning streams,
rushing creeks,
and frantic flowing rivers.

Water playing a percussionist's
symphony,
pounding,
polishing
and serenading.
Juxtaposed
to countless canyons
of granite and lava,
blasted out by man
to allow his vehicles
to traverse
those sentinels of several
valleys,
spread between the foothills,
wide and vedure;
dotted with Indian missions,
log houses,
palominos,
and Victorian mansions;
whispering,
investigate me...,
as we traveled
through the kaleidoscope
of a Montana early fall.

Glenn Buttkus 1993