Prairie

 

The thickly buzzing wood hornet,

runs along a gravel utility road,

crying out to the damp morning:

 

“Prairie, my sweet democratic landscape!”

 

Across the flat broken dirt of yesterday’s crop,

the wind flees from the east,

tosseling and juggling the prepubescent wheat.

The wheat is green like the sacred,

and the sun reclines towards the upward gravity.

 

As the drainage ditch renders a new pool,

the blessed groundhog roams and cuts his teeth,

on the bleeding heart of the brush weed.

He simply meets the market value,

waiting for his capital gains.

 

The dark chested blue bird moans,

her crushed and scavenged eggs.

Aborted by the hunger of crows,

the violaceae turn their faces forward,

to the mourning sun.

 

Voices can be heard.

The day of many has begun,

and the maintaining of livelihood,

continues with eons of practice.

The irrigator needs adjusting,

while the spray heads all attached to combinations.

In his hands,

lays the mesopotamian tradition.

 

Warm dedication to diligent labor,

radiates from the ground,

while the unprocessed carcass of earth,

prays to nothing but herself and the centralization,

of purpose.

 

The white squirrel frantically seeks solitude,

in the confines of an oak,

while the Middle American seeks solitude,

in the confines of his land.