Whose country is this I thought that I knew.
I thought that it belonged to me and you;
I’m questioning now if that’s still the case
And feeling fear that it’s no longer true.
My little horse must think it queer
That we walk this land without knowing what’s here
Between such thoughts as then and now
The darkest time for us this year.
He shakes his head and stretches a yawn
To ask this man what’s going on.
The only other sounds that come forth
Are winds that chill us from the north.
These lands are still lovely, that we can gaze upon,
But there is so much to consider, from our dusk to dawn,
What paths we might choose for us to trudge on,
What paths we might choose for us to trudge on.
Russ Pirkot
Greenfield