Prairie Complex
Hackles raised grassland hisses with rousing cicadas. To walk through is to part the hairline of this field, turning scalp into soft-footed sand. In the buffeting yellow the wind is full-chested; it splits you into the sky. Here is the throb of heat or the rain making scent. Under a lonely oak you look into the folds of a stalk, the long neck of grass bent in prayer and put it in your mouth. Whistle the eucharist, leaf green a palm again Amen is the wind’s moan smacking of a dry year waiting for rain.
You run through
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