The View

The View You can see the prairie from the empty square that once was a window Its beauty is a painting done in a master-artist's hand Waves of grass twist round each other when the wind is too restless to pick a direction From the rotted timber that once was a front porch you can hear the eerie call of vast emptiness The silo, folded in upon itself in an April tornado Most of the walls pepper the land that once was someone's vivid dream Wind plays its piccolo up and down the random prairie dog holes The house sways in tune