It was gold and steel in the west tonight
the sky from horizon to zenith alternating
rich light and billowing dark cloud.
I looked and the land seemed to me like
the west of Ireland wild and open,
punctuated with a house here
and a farmstand there, and between them
the land gray and empty in its winter wear,
silent as the tires sang their wordless song.
This earth, anonymous enough to the passerby,
known stone by stone and tree by tree by them
who stay in these houses. And who gains more?
The traveler who winds on through like the steel gray cloud?
Or the dweller who abides day by day like the golden light of sunset?