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THE UINTA RANGE

On the high plains desert of the Uinta Range
with its snow fences like bleachers,
seats to stillness, I watch
the parade of no expectations.
The sheep wagon points
to one dot after another,
camps and shacks. The locomotives
lumber down invisible tracks
of "bring me this, I'm taking that"
and disappear into rounds of hills.
A white dusting on the blackened sage,
softened by distance, races
to a sharpness at my feet, whispers
"Don't look up at the giants,"
so I consider the low,
snow-bitten plants.

      — Sherry Saye