Over the Grange

(35000 ft over Brazil)

Breakfast parade just tootled by

          the waftings of roasted

                                   toasted

                                                         allure.

          and without,

                 green and brown crop circles

                 stud the earth, sparkling

                 waters bejewel:

                             t'is a BRIGHT MORN!

                 (even with the blind down to mere crack,

                  the sun explodes from my pen's silver tip.)

Now rumpled parapets splay

         twixt emerald farm rows

         patch piece in forty thousand shades of

         green. And an ocher dusting of erosion.

It's a vast landscape, 

         but manprinted.

Now, a village with pink streets.

Now, a spindly lake bending through 27 narrow channels.

Now, a fire hazing fuzzy white across the dawn.

Now, a mud river snakes past porcelain

             settling ponds of a hilltop mine.