I dreamed of Stonehenge and its megaliths
rising from mists and myths,
then dreamed of Easter Island and the stone
giants propped on plinths,
then dreamed of minotaurs and labyrinths.
I dreamed of Rushmore, then of Crazy Horse,
blasted and bulldozed mountain bone,
and Ziolkowski. Drill the charges, and of course
stand free of flying stone.
It was Midsummer. The pious at Bear Butte
tied prayer flags to the trees
that skirt its breast, its hips, its knees.
So long as pinyon pines bear sundried fruit
scattered from every cone,
no one, not even Murphy, dreams alone.