On the edge of green,
hills rise dun-hued above
this wide spot in the road that splits
the apple orchard's core.
Were it not for wells and streams
these too would vanish like the ghosts
of sagebrush that dot now forgotten plots,
worn by wind, their dreams
of wealth obliterated.
Among the apples glowing green
there wends a wide spot in the path:
Peshastin.
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