Mesa Verde

Mesa Verde wasn't pretty,
It was gaunt and bleak. 
Spring had not yet come,
With beauty at its peak. 

The climb was steep and scary,
A challenge to the meek. 
Falling rocks for the unwary,
And a tunnel for to seek. 

A place fit for flying birds,
And their castle's keep. 
Not for men a climbing,
Not for men the weak. 

We found it uninviting,
Found it windy and cold. 
Snowflakes were a flying,
Everything looked old. 

Storm clouds on the horizon,
Angry rain sheets rolled. 
Not fit for beast or burden,
Although the story told. 

Of people strong and mighty,
Who built on these cliffs hold,
A city for the many,
In the distant days of old. 

And lived there in harmony,
With nature's great unfold,
Before Cortez came to plunder,
Stories of their gold. 

We left this place in wonder,
Burned forest once verde green. 
A tornado run asunder,
Crossed the valley briefly seen. 

And so we descended slowly,
Low geared against the rain's sheen. 
Wondering how they lived here. 
And left, a mystery still unseen.

Pueblo at Mesa Verde

Copyright 2004 © Ronald W. Hull



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