I crossed the Kansas in the Winter of 1965,
blue belled mountains and a red rocky road
to Independence, sun-kissed rings for good
fortune and a sleepy ocean at the end of the world;
shot a half-fish, half-lion at Fort Walla Walla
before stopping by the Dalles to bandy with
brown-skinned bandits. Terror Incognito:
the past mattered not on our Oregon trail,
only a brow heavy with sweat, the fate of millions
cut into separated straps on the shoulder. What riches lay
South of the Pass, emerald waters circling a lonely island
whose destiny was made, not foretold?