Song harvests slow churned the breeze
with a thousand cattle calls. Prairie dog’s
jump-yip was a flee tune too late
for nighthawk’s come hither.
I too have mistaken my share of calculated
moves. But it’s been a bison’s age since
I thrashed out a wallow.
Passing it all by a candle led me to a brighter
light—forty years of home fires singed
the aints from off my mind. Today, a junebug
out-jogged me and I didn’t care. I took my ice
cream by the hearth.
