The Ozarks

Photo by S.T. Casebeer

Beneath the ever-changing sky,

The Ozark Mountains stand.

They tug at fierce clouds passing by,

To quench the thirsty land,

While sharp rains whittle craggy bluffs,

And wash away the sand.

The rugged hills of greens and blues

Are beautiful and vast;

Each season’s ever-changing hues,

Here but brief, then past.

Their colors are inconstant,

But the Ozarks last and last.

As spring exiles the winter’s chill

Till next year’s early freeze,

The first faint call of Whippoorwill

Floats soft on evening breeze,

And echoes through the redbuds

And the Ozark’s flowering trees.

Deep in the Ozark bluffs and rocks

With old growth for a nest,

The Pileated Woodpecker taps and knocks

In rhythm with the rest,

And the passion of this ageless song,

Could never be expressed.

Beneath the ever-changing sky,

The old plateau insists,

That any pilgrim passer-by

Is drawn by Ozark mists.

And Whippoorwill will echo still,

As long as life exists.

STC