From the window I saw
Miles and miles of yellow and grey.
Broken by few rivers and many highways,
The land laid pale.
That there was nothing to see,
Was easy to think.
Why not shut the window?
Get some much-needed sleep?
But I saw the Canyon, out east.
Deep, carved into the desert rock.
And even here, soaring high.
I felt small. I am small.
And we broke then into Oregon,
Where green came again into sight.
Woods and mountains.
Woods cascading over mountains.
First were the Sisters,
Then there was Hood,
with Adams, and St. Helens,
And Rainier at last, mighty and white.
The rivers burrowed through the land.
They ached for the sea.
And I know that in their wooded banks,
Many stories had been wrought.
I wonder what those first men,
Who ventured west, would say,
Could they spy, from here,
Those many things they held dear.
I wonder what they would say,
Had I chosen to lay in the dark,
Laid back in my seat, eyes closed,
And slept over their Promised Land.