Firelineand April tells the grass it's time, ranchers fire the winter leaves, raise white smoke to the heavens. Miles burn under the sky as night guitars spool clear from Mexico on the dial in the slow-rolling car. Fire circles hills with its hot jaws, and I (with my lights off) drive the dusty lease roads. Surrounded by steel, by fire and smoke, music and stars, I sing in this burning land. __Steven Hind
© 1997 |
Visit the Home Page for Kansas