I dreamed of Stonehenge and its megaliths

        rising from mists and myths,

then dreamed of Easter Island and the stone

        giants propped on plinths,

then dreamed of minotaurs and labyrinths.   

I dreamed of Rushmore, then of Crazy Horse,

        blasted and bulldozed mountain bone,

and Ziolkowski. Drill the charges, and of course

        stand free of flying stone.

It was Midsummer. The pious at Bear Butte

            tied prayer flags to the trees

        that skirt its breast, its hips, its knees.

So long as pinyon pines bear sundried fruit

        scattered from every cone,

no one, not even Murphy, dreams alone.

—Timothy Murphy