The Ozarks are orange in winter’s tattered shroud

They are no one’s favorite color

Orange in broomsedge neglect

Orange in the undertones of cedar cones

And the cruciferous leaves that hang fire prone

In the dragon-neck branches of post oaks

And in the eyes of folks

Scratching life out of dry bone

But here we hum in this rhymeless haze

Above the gravel bellies of earth fed streams

Where children ease on summer days

Catch crawdads and drift away

Melting the sediment of ancient seas

That gushes sweet from springs and streams

Streams that feed the kingfisher and break the dormant seeds

Of Hamamelis vernalis, glacial relicts and a billion weeds

Churning in the antiquity of gravel

Orange gravel

Half polished porcelain chips

Rippling beneath cold creeks

Cold from earthen depths and subterranean seeps

And out again to the light of day

And the green bliss that gently fades

From frost and back again with vernal rains

Rains that lend a sharp snag to checkered bark

Heaved from red sandstone and sour clay