Black

__ Black __ Majestic and old. Weathered from wind and rain, rocks smooth now from the years. I can hear the distant drummer, the roll of buffalo hooves. Painted cheeks and feathered heads. A wild place— Words try to tell her story, but the text can’t keep up. The wind sings melodies even better, building the climax for Wheat and Evergreen trees. A campfire crackles and pops, lighting the black night. Hiking boots carry strong legs through trails and canyons. Among history I walk. Save yourself, Return home. Clench the soil, the roots are buried deep. The purple flowers reveal their faces through the tangled Aspen groves. A flash of animal eyes peek up from a stream. No one around. Except you and nature. Rocks sculpted for a monument, Many hands that helped to chisel and reveal. Sun drenched skin and weathered wrinkles guide your eyes like a map. This place is something— Black Majestic and old. Melissa Crouch