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Sibilant and sonorous,
the gentle chinook breeze
hummed along and whistled
as it rustled through the trees…..
southeastward down the Rockies-
a tellin’ tales of spring;
southeastward, down the Rockies-
a smellin’ so like spring.
The pity is, the chinook breeze
too late to warm and save from harm
a world that couldn’t wait.
The range turns cruel and vicious
when entombed beneath the snow;
when a savage blizzard’s ragin’
and it’s forty-plus below;
and the stock can’t find a shelter
’cuz there’s just no place t’ go;-
and the killer winds are slashin’
and it’s forty –plus below.
5000 waited for it…
the Chinook that didn’t come….
and all 5000 perished-
5000 minus one.
The blizzard flung its mortar out
and sepulchered in white
a weary world succumbing to
the blizzard’s savage bite.
It clamped its teeth into the herds
of white-man’s buffalo,
strugglin’ hard to hoof up grass
through ice-encrusted snow.
No food… no shelter…blizzard gales
a’ whippin’ cross the land….
the torment was beyond the scope
that man or beast could stand.
5000 waited for it-
a chinook- a ray of sun;
and all 5000 perished….
5000 minus one.
It’s temper bared, the blizzard sank
its fangs into their hides;
with not an ounce of pity shown
for suffering stock that died.
The warm Chinook too late exhaled
its thawing, spring-like breath….
too late for herds, all ice-interred,
that kept a date with death.
Bette Wolf Duncan
copyright©2001
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