I was raised in a small town in a valley between these hills.
And this is the ending triplet stanza for a sestina I wrote about going home for a visit.
Wind parts the grasses, revealing the lines of crumbling foundations.
A dust devil swirls and ripples the wheat, like the stir of inventions
still turning and flashing, the green fields of my mind..
When I went back this June, I almost unnerved by the silence and the empty sweep of clouds and wind over the land. I belong in the Palouse, I was born and raised there, but at the same time...never at home in this vastness and quiet.
I want a simple life...to be able to walk in safety to the grocery and the library and to have enough land to root around in. But not this simple. I like having real water ocean nearby, not an ocean of grain.
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