After many miles of driving through fields,
through Idaho Falls and into the plains
where sky is broken by miles of green grains,
a state economy based on its yields.
These miles and miles of well kept pastoral
an American remake of Breugel,
a story bales of hay patiently tell,
these strokes in canvas, perfect, masterful.
On future crops of garlic on the road,
Idaho, of the old rustic village,
these empty shopfronts made of aged wood.
On local rail lines silos fill the load
with loaders built to prevent all spillage
just miles from where a field of lettuce stood.
Just north of ancient volcanic barrens
tan trailers begin to pepper the route,
under a vista the road straightens out,
atomic structure provides environs.
In Arco atomic power was fused,
the BORAX built in 1951,
atomic energy bright as the sun,
to light all light bulbs and devices used.
This town of Arco became a world’s first
to harness experimental power
even if just for one day in July.
Yet today one could say the town looks cursed
by purple blooms from local wild flower,
as American as an apple pie.
From campground located outside of town
some travelers witnessed an Arco Fourth
where local fireworks were seen blossomed forth,
explosions of color alter the brown.
The children ran down the street with sparklers,
this town of Arco steeped in tradition,
a July day to forget condition,
explosions thrown from some small firecrackers.
On folding camp chairs we witness a fire
that rapidly engulfs the bluff above
and fire truck sirens enhance all the noise.
These accidental histories expire
into a darkness with a calming shove
as crickets drown the sound of people’s joys.