by P. R. Lowe, copyright July 4, 2016 (written June 10, 1970)
To go like a Gypsy
into those sacred places
where waters stop their falling
and birds stop their calling
to watch and listen for the lord
he is stomping through the thickets
with a rifle in his hand
raised to such heights in his mind
that he cannot look down
he stumbles over bodies
and breaks the peace of our mother
that squirms in the damp and fertile earth
beyond his vision and reason
it is treason
to go like a gypsy
into their sheltered realm still humming
and warn them of his coming