Plain(s)

Plain(s)





Here in the home of dryland wheat,
buffalo berry, and prickly pear,
the Sharptail sit in amongst the 
sage and I watch as a determined dog 
works to pin them down.  Sandhills dot 
a living sky, and two Pronghorn go under 
the bottom wire of a four strand fence.
The wind still whispers through the 
weathered wood of all that’s been left 
behind and as I walk the stubble a covey 
of Huns rise from a chokecherry thicket 
on the other side of the coulee. 




They say if you look out over this landscape
“all you’ll see is the back of your own head”,
a poor prescription for any man already 
prone to too much internal dialogue. 




But blessed are those with 
something to look into 
rather than at. 


’Shuffle’

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