…(while flying above Arizona)
No bird flies higher than we fly
…Nor faster than we soar.
And all have quieter screech or squawk
…Than our great engines’ roar.
We fly alone; birds can’t compete,
…And cloudless is the sky.
The Arizona air and land
…Are, in mid-summer, dry.
The almost-desert down below
…Is but a stubbled face,
A two-day growth of scattered beard
…That green does rarely grace.
The dark green dots I see are trees;
…They run in necklace stands
In clumps with beaded twists and turns
…Across the barren lands.
Thus in the heat where life is sparse,
…They cling tenaciously
Where water runs or water ran –
…Life’s wet necessity.
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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.
The Bard on the Hill 
From the driest continent – good one bard.