The Exhaustions Of Far Flung Mornings Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Managing another birdbath into its grottos,
Until the infant sunlight sings up on the cut glass of
Mountains,
And the zephyrs turn around in the zoetrope of missing or
Abandoned airplanes;
But the planes are as of yet vermilion and good for
Growing and sustaining, and even yet out of doors,
The cowboys will eventually come in
Leaving their horned children to the moonlight and
Rainstorms;
And then they can have all they want of candlelight,
Gossiping to the hearths of their romances
While the Indians dawn blue paint and headdresses,
And speak intelligibly of another world which they will surely
End up in once they disappear;
Even while their enemies awaken perpetually in the exhaustions
Of far flung mornings that should not prove to be real.