Feral Winds

He loves the whistle on the plains

when feral winds blow

The feel of sand on a beach between his toes

Loves the postcard beauty

of mountain winter snows

or when spring comes around

and lush hill grass grows

By: J.N.R Dutton

@ The Bus Stop

Just a poem that popped in my mind while thinking about when I used to travel by greyhound buses.

He was sitting on a bus stop bench

In the cold Mississippi rain

It was coming down like crazy, man

Soaking through everything

including the last bit of road food

he’d thought to bring,

It was half a breakfast burrito

 it was just leftovers anyway,

He was relieved at last,

when his bus finally came

He said one more hour of that

torrent would’ve driven me insane

By: J.N.R Dutton