In the Ancient Hills

by Lynn Packham Larson

It was raining in Tulsa
Which meant that in two or three hours
It would be raining here.

While the wind drove the storm east
I sat reading and
Waiting

For the rain to pound its way
Across the flat red earth of Oklahoma
And into the hills of Arkansas.

The black dirt of these hills
Long gone down river to the delta
Where broad fields of rice and cotton

Lay out across the landscape
Frequented by migrating mallards
And red-winged black birds.

Now we spend our blip of a moment
On earth trying to grow tomatoes
On the rocky hillsides,

Seduced by the tangy juice
That drips off our chins