Lemon sun kisses pale grassheads
awash in the ever-present wind
and the tinkle-buzz song of the longspur
like a tiny western meadowlark
makes me stop to look.
There he perches, lord of all he surveys
singing not for our ears
but for all his nestlings yet to come.
I am dreaming of potholes,
glacial leavings and tepee circles of stones;
of willets cursing my every step,
of ducks floating and dabbling
on every piece of earth-bound sky.
And I want to hear that longspur,
chestnut-collar compressed by his fervor,
sing that bit of prairie bebop
his head tilted back as if to let the wind
take away these notes he no longer needs.
But I need them.