My Country
by Maynard Dixon (1875-1946)
I love the grim gaunt edges of the rocks,
the great bare backbone of the Earth,
rough brows and heaved-up shoulders,
round ribs and knees of the world’s skeleton
protruded in lonely places;
where from ledges of sun-silenced cliffs
the wild war eagle drifts aslant
blue ecstasies of air
to the delicate deep fringes of the pines;
the long-returning curves of solid hills
that bend the wind along the dappled sky;
or far-drawn levels of red-mesa lands,
receding infinitely, step on step on step…
and grandeur of grandeurs, over all
the high commanding glory of the sun!