On the Prairie

I am on the prairie
with my weak heart
and it is hot.

Wheat nips my legs;
grasshoppers play theirs,
I count my days.
A raven circles,
her beak to the ground
feathers in the sun.
She squawks on a post
bursts into ink
and flies away.
She is off
tooling raptors.
I cannot understand the heat
or the space.
These fields have
no regard for reckoning:
They fill
and empty
with the same vigour.

Up there,
swooping and cawing,
one bird
all alone

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