Bob Dylan: Like a Rolling Stone

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Roll on, roll on weather-dusted Poets...

....my road tested friends,
into this country.
Poetry at my fingertips along the rusted rail.
Trucks bringing in fresh timber on this highway
with the winds and rains tearing at my windshield.

Cows in low green pastures
yellow gorse all over the roadside.

Swiftly descends the hawk,
her brown sun-stroked feathers;
her talons mean death to me,
Ah!, but the vision she gives as we fly.

Far below me, I see an apaloosa mare in the swampy field,
the green rivers, the swamps, Hungry Island.
It is the color of green in mid-May
at the peak of Spring opulence.

Oh, gifted poets, fallen comrades gather 'round.
Let us ride the wild freeway
past Kelso, Longview, Kalama
so many separate miles.
Her beautiful flapping wings,
if not for her there would be no vision.
Red rocks of Washington State, reddish brown and lichen green encased;
and the heaving factories
acres of brown timber slash
wide rivers and barren plateaus.