The Terrible Biped Poem by Brian Rihlmann

The sagebrush hills
east of town,
sun scorched tan and brown
in late summer,
are not so inviting,
and remain beautifully desolate.

People see nothing there,
nothing in that barren landscape
to chatter about,
so they avoid it,
crowding and defiling
the shores of our lakes instead.

Alone, I walk a dusty path
deeper into the canyon,
as city noise fades
to the buzzing of flies
and rattle of crickets.

The trail narrows,
follows a stream channel
dry as the wrinkled cheeks
of an old crone
who sheds no more tears.

She has seen enough
of life and death
to know that tears
are unnecessary.

As my boots
crunch over sandy soil,
the desert creatures
flee and scurry,
hiding in clumps of brush,
awaiting my passage.

Man, the terrible biped,
feared by creeping, crawling things,
on their bellies in the dirt,
yet if they knew our hearts,
they would stand their ground.