Watershed

Flat lands host no hiding places Sand hills were my home. Groaning windmills catch each breeze. Hear their hammer song. . . .   The west wind rises, a mill squawks to life. Cooled from the deep, The cistern refills with echoes, Echoes of emptiness rising . . . seeking,   "Where have you gone?" "Where have you gone?"

Joan Munn Hopkins

Copyright © 2000 Joan Munn Hopkins

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