leggings and morning calling. Fall canes, big bluestems
attempt a plait in her ashen hair. The switchgrasses
wet her chest, cold and breeching into the southwind.
Strands of whisper-smooth sumac freights the east,
and chill finds wind cupped against her wet breasts.
Roughed, tickclover beds she has crowded into with
eyes downcasted and careful not to trip.
Her purchased prairie is kept with tears, sap, scratch
blood and smear. Her field glasses hang useless, cast
in the fog of the fall. The stick and twig scraped shins
are skippered into black locust falls and hedge balls.
Stepping to stone and snag, linting wet nicks accross
her neck. The filagree of flat seeds in the wet creases
of her sleeves and pants legs. A white plane climbs
above her and her dogs return to pant and caress.
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