Prairie

Prairie

Sunset, a vein of cold blood, empties into prairie grass,

reddens dun, dry stems rasping in wind.

Night, brighter than day, gibbous moon in ice-clear sky,

black trees suppliant, grass shining silver and still

Stiff-legged, a coyote lopes across the meadow,

shoulders hunched, head down, listening.

Moles infiltrate through a hole too small to find;

in petty terror we snap their necks with traps. 

But in the vision there is a bearskin on your shoulders,

you walk out, stone club in hand, steaming in the cold.

The cottonwood has entangled the moon.

                                                            Jim Boring