Connection

          A hawk touches down

                            the humming earth before Miami,

                                                                                   Oklahoma.

                      You old Shawnee, I think

                                                         of your rugged ways

                               the slick-floored bars and whiskey

                                 sour nights when the softer heart

                                                                             comes apart.

          The Spokane you roam isn’t City of the Angels

                      but another kind of wilderness.

                           You speed in a Ford truck and it’s five

                              in the morning, the sun and dogs

                                                                               only ones up

          and you go home to red earth

                                                          when you see a hawk

                        crossing wires

                                              touching down.