PRAIRIE SONG
We watch the light shift.
The sky turns mauve
with hints of pinks, Orangina.
Slender, electric
ribbons of blue
ignite cloudy wisps.
Tall grasses flutter.
Dusk dims down.
Tiny canals bright
with waterbirds twist through
roots and membranes
of reddened marshes.
Stalks and showy seedheads
drift lazily about
like willowy dancers
at rehearsal’s ending.
Undulate vistas lie
open before us. We
want to reach out, sweep
our arms out so downy
fuzz will ripple against skin.
The pasturage and turf
of the Great Plains rests
in these glades and wetlands.
It is easy to imagine us
gathering up seedlings
to weave into baskets.
Or folding our checkered
picnic cloths for the diurnal,
passage home, grasslands
fading softly into the last bits
of smoldering light.
This unlikely wildness
lies just outside our dingy
train window as we speed
past New Jersey’s landfills
to Port Authority tunnels.
Our magical escape stays briefly.
Then its siren call is lost
as we drift away into darkness.