Dust

I need nothing But the red setting sun And to rest easy in the palm of night With the prairie’s cool arms around me. I came in on dirty horse hooves And lonely cowboys’ hats, Blown far away from the cities Where houses and bridges rise up. I say nothing. Old wooden fences and barbed wire Can’t keep me out, A scarf tied in a knot at the chin, For I am in the wind. You will find me On children’s feet in late summer. The farmer’s wife sweeps me out, But I creep under her door And hide in her cupboards. I am not afraid of the chimneys With their blue billowing towers. For I am a bucket of ash in winter. You have seen me Lingering over corn fields, tall and upright, Sticking to tassels and ears. In the evening hours I am the dusk. The farmer stuffs his hogs until they waddle. He hacks them with cleavers And hangs them on hooks. I say nothing. I have been driven out by the axe That claims the timber And I bite at the plow. I cling to the wolf’s throat, choking. It is I who holds all things together. I was there on dark days Among the killings of young men. I was the last survivor When wars were fought. I say nothing. The rain and the sun and the wheat Have haggled it over. The rainbow in the east pledges And the Colorado River boasts; They will wash me away. I flourish where the old things go, Covering the writings on head stones. It is all mine eventually.