Hills spill into the sea there...

the feeling of vertigo
the sea so steeply below
running and stumbling over roots
that bad feeling
when someone points to the sky
there the jets are assembled
they are hovering like wasps
a hysterical mechanical swarm
awaiting orders, poised to kill
face not the screaming warbirds
duck into the underbrush
but the trail opens onto
a chasm of tanks and men
a stinking hole dug from the earth
in the future it will be
filled with mudpuppies
a concrete pond reclaimed
a sacred pumpkin lake
Look up again-the sky is
filled with pebbles
a giant riverbed of agate, midnite blue
in between the stones and the
black shapes of space-
the harriers.