Heat turns the Prairie into waves like an ocean.
Churin’ grass in a rollin’ fluid motion.
As the wind blown waves crossest an ember sea,
An’ the Sage Brush bends without a knee.
Heat draws moisture an’ pools it on the horizon.
The Prairies’ floor cracks as heat vapors are arisin’.
Hypnotized by the rhythmic moan of a windmill,
Tumbleweeds roll; an’ roll by still.
Like stars, thoughts, fill the skies of my head,
An’ age more than broken bones, I dread.
As time covers the many moons of my passions,
An’ the sun sets on the wrecks an’ the crashin’s.
Nod my head, my thoughts’ stampede,
I jerk an’ spur with a grip of greed.
When I’m off my hand on the inside of plum,
It’s hard to figure what-for or how-come.
Snot blows past me, an’ sticks to my shirt,
Off from his hide, flies eyes full of dirt.
I yank my wrap an’ step off on the ground,
I’ve made the 90 club an’ the next round.
By Jim “Ish” Fellers
Copyright ©: July 2, 2004 ~ Friday