Lightning-runs down the midnight
Dakota sky.
We slept in back of the wagon, feet
stuck out of mosquito netting.
It was hot.
Wy-
oming in the morning was indian-
red with ax-nose mountains of
Shoshone, chin-cliffs of sediment
piled high and telling of
when mountains fought
each other and
Big Horn narrowed
with clay and silt
to
montana browns and greens. Bucks loping
on hills, wilderness bear,
a great tree growing out of the head
of a moose.
We headed south in Idaho, riding clear
of towns, taking back roads, filling
the back of the wagon with sprigs
and flowers.
Never turned the radio on.
Never read a headline.
We hit California. The newspaper said,
Papa, you were three days dead.
The cities and towns piled up again.
The sun got blinding. She put on dark glasses.
I drove slowly through the streets to the end.
(1961)
Voice: Jack Hirschman
Piano: Gaspare Di Lieto
