The nature of hills
Burned up chrome
Aspiring to the high plains
Sun glare drowned in the surface
And black flows after rains.
In the small valleys
Evaporating levels of dry lakes are
Steep, heavy, dark and bitter with the deposits
A thin crust lies over the area
The wastes to the sand shows the sculpture
More storms scar them
And the desert edges are famed at last.
A hill expects to depend upon
For they are slow
Here the hot death rolling where always
A heavy dust
Whirling into the earth or called for violence
Lost in love, yet visited inevitably
If not so little of it.
From: The Land With Little Rain by Mary Austin