Kazakh Steppe

A sea of feather grass,
all sprayed with dewdrops
is rippling silver
in a murmurous haze.
Their pointed fur caps
crammed down on
their foreheads,
and crouched above
their flying horses' manes,
the Kazakhs gallop,
feet home in the stirrups,
and swerve around their
great flocks once again.
And, darting from beneath
the thundering hoofbeats
a startled spy, the wild
bird takes the air.
The sun burns up the crowns
of parched trees
and, for a hundred miles,
there's nothing there
but space. And from a
low hill an old shepherd
looks out across those
spacious plains.
And all around the
bird-choirs are rejoicing.

copyright 2002 Michael Shcherba