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Buttes Like Steeples

These plains,
Unjustly named,
Roll and tumble and pitch
Like ships on the sea,
Like the sea, which,
From the sky
Glitters still and calm before the eye,
But when the eye drops
Trades its shine for crests and troughs.

Above high plains, buttes like steeples rise
And point flat heads at endless skies
To break up the monotony
Or glorify the sea
Of grass.
You see them rarely,
Separated as they are
By miles of prairie,
Out of the way,
Less accessible than the knolls of buffalo grass,
Far closer to paradise.

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