Photograph of bluebells by LeAnn Spencer
Colorado East
What remains of the prairie earth
here lies between cornfields or scattered
state land along the Platte River.
My uncle and cousin no longer
hunt in the mountains for
mule deer, but visit us each fall
hoping to bag that trophy white tail
at the river bottom where nearly
all the public land sits in short sections.
These corn feds taste better than mountain deer
all hopped up on sagebrush.
But instead of giant antlers, they bring us
bags of smaller than Boone and Crockett
deer jerky spiced hot.
It doesn't last long in our house.
To the south about a mile from our house in town
a very small section of long grass
grows. A bare glimpse of
the gone beauty of the past.
Tall stalks hide deer and snakes or
an occasional barn owl.
Coyote scat, fur-filled, dots
the road enclosing the plot of parched land.
Seasonal ponds feed ducks and geese.
Another mile to the west looms the power plant,
Pawnee, named for a tribe that used to
live around here somewhere to the east. Bald Eagles
nest near the chimney in a lone cottonwood
blocked from sight by brick walls.
I fish the state ponds for stocked
trout since there aren't but carp in the river.
I don't care for carp.
I know that I'm a fish snob and
have never caught a carp on a fly rod.
But still …
The mountains are too many miles off
for daily fly rod practice there. I catch lots of fish
anyway.
The mountains where I grew up
shimmer in the two-hour-doing-sixty-five-
by-car distance. They're why
everyone visits the colorful state.
Too regal in their purple majesty.
The eastern half of the state is like
a dried up spinster sister with
few suitors to hold her withered hand.
Copyright © 2008 George Finnell. All rights reserved.