By Andrew R. Duckworth
I’m not sure why I fell in love
With the western landscape, the
Scars, the jagged edges, graveyard
Of what once was in the American
West where footprints last.
So do hoof prints.
Perhaps it is the asymmetry,
The majesty of its perfection
Within its imperfection, no
Parallels, no parallel.
The pain doesn’t come in waves,
Not in this place.
September, only my mind
Took a trip there, remembering
The echoes across vast stretches.
I viewed horses in the valleys,
The mountains in the distance,
Cooler air against the skin
At higher elevations.
The sound of traffic
Brought me back, the sound
Of screams ringing out
Like banshees in a distant land,
Echoes issuing over the chasms.
Poetry and Essays of Andrew Ryan Duckworth 