Wyoming

Lodgepole pine fences etch themselves like wrinkles

on the face of mountains born before the Son of God.

Small moments of succulent grasses rise heavenward;

patches of emerald, amid an ocean of gray-green sage.

Like a pack of hounds, the herd of horses hunts them,

moving from one bunch to the next in a primal rhythm.

Great teeth tear the tiny shoots pushing up toward sun and sky.

Such a huge mouth meant to dine on such slender, tender fodder.

One thinks to question the architect. "Is this a design flaw?"

Or a cosmic practical joke, savored by a constructionist

obviously amused by oxymoron and incongruity!