A poem inspired by a run I made on 31 July 06, when I viewed the large Comanche power plant and all.

With the Antelope

I run where the antelope trod,
their little hooves print in the prairie.

To the left the land is owned.
To the right the mauled land is open to all.
In the middle the road serves high voltage power lines.

The Comanches ran with the antelope,
and saw the prairie broad and green.
Pikes Peak to the north,
Wet mountains to the west.

Now the Comanche makes power.
His tall stack probes the sky,
his mouth spews a plume.

I run where the antelope trod,
and I look where the Comanches looked.