Dark eucalyptus stand in shaggy rows, Small oak trees interrupt the yellow grass, And horses huddle where the fenceline goes; Here bright October sleeps below the pass. Old winds chopped down the mountain towers Above these fields where lately iron teeth Reduced the soil and in a few short hours Cold concrete tombed the injured slopes beneath. With bridges arching high above the drains And shining serpent curves of man-made stone Coiling back upon themselves, concentric lanes, The freeway writes hard beauty of its own.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com