Voices



As it opens on the prairie the golden day paints tall grasses in coats of yellow and red tinged with brown the reed-like stems rub together in unison spontaneous wind chimes calling me I tread with hesitation as I hear the clanging bells of a better world lucent and lingering the sun swathes the undulant waves of grass with their imminent trap of falling At the stone manger cattle shuffle and moan and munch their cud big eyes bleached in white see no farther than the nose we hear them lowing but they sway steadily in place out of shape soldiers reporting for duty with hay in their hide and an unshined buckle stuck to their necks Like them I could take refuge in the ruins of time fierce crossings in the night days turn to weeks to months to years to faded decades in the soil black sweet fertile as a mother cow birthing always to plan this realm could lend its glory to another to no one Let the poet sing the sorrow let the seer paint the roof of the sky I will not follow their prospects of emptiness they do not occur to strangers in the grasses I hear their voices but cannot reach them from afar


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