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.