Poets trip to the Mountain

A swarm of poets search for insight to consume.
like vultures hovering over a carcass
They scout the mountain.
I have pretended a Native spying the trail to Oregon
a train of blank canvas
a cloud of dust
Neighboring tribe far north the river,
 beyond the sea, beyond the moon.
The view has no poetry. 
This mountain conceals inspiration,
my shadow has become a rock
The vultures unite in dismay
while I hear echoes from oxen blend with the wind.
The poets insist that they descend into the valley
            in their wagon,
To become vultures of the land.


Talk with someone and smile.

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