Bromide Hill

Many million years ago when this part of earth was green
These were the highest mountains that this land had ever seen
Worn down by wind and water, the years like a machine
Shades of history washed to nothing down these creeks of travertine

People came in shackles, and people came in tears
They came to land most people had not wanted all these years
To make a home of plenty in the midst of all their fears
Until the next big wave of eastern refugees drew near

I’m following this route through the Arbuckle mountains
Then winding my way up to the top of Bromide hill
I’ve made my mistakes—drove too far on these highways
My home fades like a coyote’s cry in the chill

People plowed in submission, they tore the fertile ground
But the ground gave way to dust clouds and the people nearly drowned
The refugees took off again, California bound
When dust had come to rest the black gold made its rumbling sounds

Oil barons made their fortunes, new towns and highways grew
But the oil bust came quickly leaving mansions for the few
By seas of worker’s shacks where companies left no work to do.
These towns became like fossils, fade in clouds of fossil fuel

The refinery smoke still smolders in the skies
I take refuge in birdsong, under trees on Bromide hill
I’ve been feeding the fires burning long miles behind me
Lulled from my dreams by the thumping of the drills

Now plains burn to dust where hopeful fields had spread
And the pump jacks nod like dinosaurs, bringing back their dead
To haunt these howling highways down which endless cars have sped
Past roadkills and casinos turning tapestries to threads

Is it better if our stories blow by on the wind
Or if they’re solid as the stone that forms the top of Bromide hill?
Maybe in the morning I can change the path I take
But for now I’ve got a little time to kill…

Some say the Earth is endless, oil fields and fertile land
But this place was once an ocean that in time returned to sand
Some hear the future whisper in the switch grass in the wind
Can we learn secrets from this red dirt before we turn to dust again?

Copyright Tracy S. Feldman, All rights reserved