A poem

Range of Vision

I could paint a picture for you

of the clouds

as I saw them yesterday,

all ominous and roiling,

surging over the horizon, that humble barrier between earth

and sky,

as if they were a tidal wave

as if the tape-measure road on which we drove

lay on the coast of some tropical paradise,

instead of somewhere within the boundaries

of this unknowable shape labeled “Nebraska.”

I could relate to you

how it felt to witness the marvel

of that black paint stroke stretching

around our little antique snow globe–

like adventure and mystery

and anticipation,

like static tugging at my hair.

It could be said that

for a brief moment,

contemplating that wall of heavy condensation,

I saw not cumulonimbus but rocky palisade,

a range of steep cliffs jutting skyward

in defiance of this midwestern plane

and

for that brief moment

the idea of mountains in Nebraska seemed, to me,

perfectly natural–

although truthfully,

aside from that one brief moment,

the closest to the mountains I can ever get

is a preset background on my laptop.