Thanksgiving — Greg Hobbs


We are waltzing now into the moonlight morning
Of the prairie and the mountains and those lights
Feeling the mountains blowing over us
I search the crystal edges of the twilight
For birds still floating over these prairies
I had to quiet the glowing clatter down
Some of these higher lights, I think, are stars
The moon’s a sand lily petal floating down
Until you join your kinsman at the sea.

Thomas Hornsby Ferril, Waltz Against The Mountains

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