Montana Pastoral

I am no shepherd of a child’s surmises. I have seen fear where the coiled serpent rises, Thirst where the grasses burn in early May And thistle, mustard, and the wild oat stay. There is dust in this air. I saw in the heat Grasshoppers busy in the threshing wheat. So to this hour. Through the warm dusk I drove To blizzards sifting on the hissing stove, And found no images of pastoral will, But fear, thirst, hunger, and this huddled chill.