of gods and monsters

The clouds above  are soft and the red earth sighs with  the far off chant of  natives,  pure and natural.  Now we are a hard place of  frozen sidewalks and rails of  trains that rush on like flocks of panicked geese. Their cold  box cars  carry the forgotten  to Portland and unknown destinations where men in fine suits, their eyes lit with cruelty,  sit behind vintage desks.  We  have forgotten  the sweet breeze of a summer downpour,  the call of a  whippoorwill,  everything beautiful that begs us to look up.