hear the Whispers in the Twilight
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He often stands
in the corner of the field
say he stands there
Part of a wild horse herd many years ago,
That was then.
Summer's a grassy sea of ochre yellows
and dusty browns
in this dry, hot part of our north state.
The rains are done,
and won't come again
till the sun scorched land
is cooled by Fall.
Wherever you see a stretch of green,
you know that pasture has water to it,
from some irrigating well.
For unless they're changed
by the hand of man,
every open field on this valley floor
dries up like a critter's
sun bleached bone.
But I welcome the sight
of those buff colored hills
and sage gray brush.
It means there's still some space untouched
by anything but the natural cycle
It's known for years.
And it's learned to endure,
as all life must,
trusting the rains will follow the dust.
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On July 21st, 2016, George Turnbull left this world for the one of greater beauty that lies beyond.
Turnbull Fine Art ©2018