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First Line: This reach of sagebrush with its windy hill
Last Line: Taking its flight among the listening stars.


This reach of sagebrush with its windy hill
Framed by my doorway, is a troubled place
Known only to my dreams, remembered still
In daylight hours to haunt them for a space.
It seems that I shall presently awake
In some azalea-scented dark once more,
Where swans are drifting down a quiet lake,
Curving their silver arc along the shore.

And faintly now I almost thought I heard --
As one would hear across the verge of sleep --
Out of the grey wind's sudden lull, in bars
Of gold, the slender rapture of a bird --
A rift of joy that no wild throat could keep,
Taking its flight among the listening stars.





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