The crags are aligned as if sentries on watch,
for eons the valley below
has echoed the sounds of its weathered decay
as thanks to the looming plateau.
The pines Ponderosa, White Bristlecone, Scotch,
have lasted erosion's resolve,
while thunderstorms buffet the stoneface array,
allowing the cliffs to evolve.
Though man hasn't crowded upon this frontier,
there have been explorers who seek
awareness of nature unblemished and chaste,
when hearing of scablands' mystique.
The salt flats and boulders of sandy veneer,
surrounded by gargoyles of rock,
still wait unconcerned with its fate interlaced
with politics' unyielding clock.
Summer, how we've missed you!
The tackle's been waiting,
we're long last debating
on where to go.
The camps, overcrowded,
with lakes that are drying
and beaches now frying
Oh, Summer, stay longer!
I've built a strong lean-to
with logs, or I mean to,
in baking brush.
It's one hundred and five,
a glorious season
of pain for no reason,
and we like it.
Oh, Summer, please help us
without this frustration
Autumn, how we love thee!
my morning of gardening
had an audience.
Jack has published over 350 poems in his career, many accompanied by his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana.