Fishkill Ridge Poem

Fishkill Ridge

pock-marked hillsides
rocks shimmer through
branches
heat that the heat has not
yet opened
kneads gently skin
light brown smell
gleam silver cornices
soon to be green leaves.

I fight the Garganthor in me.
Man who builds houses
and devours foothills in long drainages.
From Beacon town, up.
Master Fishkill creek,
slaughter and scale Lamb’s Hill, up
the Fishkill ridgeline
and then....
right down the Breakneck
Notch, zooming south
ten miles, swoosh down granite
face of Breakneck
the trees see you/I
flail
like a hawk
through them
preybound-
but where is your prey?