Eastern Colorado Dream
The windmills' arms turn slowly
In the haze some miles to the north,
Across the border and the Platte.
Cicadas rasp the oven air. I sit
Beneath the only tree that I can
See, beside a road with no one
On it, waiting, as she said I should.
A dot appears upon a rise,
A truck, I think, approaching me.
Carol's coming. She's on time,
And life is very good.
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