Shear-walled canyon cracks Border roughly-hewn earthen benches, tables — Idaho plateaus. Land hot, thirsty, rugged, where folks with corderoy hands Reach out, like mothers, like fathers To keep it all safe. It’s big here, Miles big, thousands of ‘em. Cowboy names — and songs — drift through these canyonlands Like howl of wolf, yip of coyote, cry of eagle, sing through Windstorm, drive deep into hearts. Roaring whitewater, dust-sifted plains; Etched with green valleys, furrowed by lazy creeks. Squint your eyes, you can see buffalo nibbling on sagebrush. Shoshone, Paiute once lived here too. Land of gold mines, goldrush, now golden opportunity. — Jeanne Huff
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