Where the Prairie Grass Moans

At the end of the field

tall grasses rustle

a coyote roams the creek

snout glued to the ground

ears cocked and attuned

to the slightest change

in the land's benevolent breath

I have met her on solitary hunts

eyes locked on eyes

grimaces grown into grins

enmity painted incognito

behind summer's

sunburned masks

we are identical

instinctive foes lonely predators

on the trail of unseen prey

Cottonwoods still thrive here

their bustling tops topple in the wind

flashing leaves like feathers stretching to take flight

but trees squirm handcuffed to arthritic roots

I settle beside one and watch

the coyote rummage past

the other line of grasses

she is coming up empty

circling in heat

I tip my hat to her

but she will not look up

Does she know how nature

seduces us with dreams beauty

and mystic visions

until we learn to ignore

the bloody carcass in the woods

awaiting resurrection

but passed over

by the ancient Oversoul

How Romanticism rings hollow

relic of England's bygone wants

stuffed into the Lake District

where ghosts of Wordsworth

and Coleridge roam clinging

to the mystery of what is made

in these ordinary days

Poetry does not hound the coyote

she neither listens or cares about

diction and diphthongs

only squeals of death turn her head

we are twins scanning different books

I see my life in them wrenched out of time

encased in the ideals of metaphor and song

she wants only a simple map that leads

to nests of rabbits hiding in plain sight

I have captured my prey in this reverie

of sun and sky and sleek untrammeled roads

to walk is to wonder about our place

outside the artifice of cities and cars

the too-tight garments

of a world raised in our image

narcissism in every twist

of plastic and steel

how I envy these fields

packed with life

the domain of hungry coyotes

as we yearn for another realm

where the prairie grass moans