"Something is calling to me
from the corners of fields,
where the leftover fence wire
suns its loose coils, and stones
thrown out of the furrow
sleep in warm litters;
where the gray faces
of old No Hunting signs
mutter into the wind,"
from In the Corners of Fields
Ted Kooser
The last of the photos from our trip to the
Cabin in May a bit late but we switched
computers which took a while to figure out.
We are starting the trip home. A few inhabitants
of the Prairie pot holes
And then the Prairie a canvas of sky, cloud and horizon.
from Prairie Sure
The last of the photos from our trip to the
Cabin in May a bit late but we switched
computers which took a while to figure out.
We are starting the trip home. A few inhabitants
of the Prairie pot holes
And then the Prairie a canvas of sky, cloud and horizon.
"Would I miss the way a breeze dimples
the butter-colored curtains on Sunday mornings,
or nights gnashed by cicadas and thunderstorms?
The leaning gossip, the half-alive ripple
of sunflowers, sagging eternities of corn
and sorghum, September preaching yellow, yellow
in all directions,"
from Prairie Sure
Carol Light
