Montana

In the heart of Montana rests your spirit, 

Green with the waves of grass combed over the Hills, 
Tanned by servitude under the sun. 

Wide open spaces, roads without names, 

Jackrabbits sprinting through the prairie lanes, 

Wild horses grazing on the fragrant brown soil, 

Here you were gallant, a stormy child, 

Unhindered by the graceless cities, free to roam 

Where the land opened up, swallowed you whole, 

Digested you in rivers of ice and plenty, 

Ripped open the palace of servitude, leaking 

All those photographs of fake smiles and plastic lips. 
Here is the high country, realm of the forgotten, 

A land cast off from the imperial arenas that cheer 
Your name, re-printing it on magazines of luster. 
Clouds in the air, seeds of change diluted 
Through the blind lens captured by birds 
Tilt over the mountains on boomerangs of peace. 
Between the slopes are wedged the saved 
Images of latent memories, where frozen lakes, 
Solidified by time and growth, project their screens 
On the timber-lined domes of glaciated theaters.