For purple miles the mountains rise
above the river. Barns
assemble in surrounding corn.
The traveler takes nothing here for granted,
tippling under ice-and-vodka skies.
He listens to the water’s racy babble
and discerns a meaning. Even
when the wind yanks back a shutter,
he perceives a sign. A farm boy
fishing in the distance moves him
more than a museum. Cowbells
tinkle in the distant calm.
He vows to quit his salaried position
one fine day, returning to this spot
to sip forever as the mountains rise.