Kansas
Cattle bellow in time
with the metal squawk
of the windmill.
And a breeze stirs
the Kansas dust,
sprinkling me,
then whispering through the corn.
The truck in the distance,
is trailed by an earthy cloud,
silent until the buzz
of its engine and the crunch
of the earth beneath its tires
poke through the stillness.
It descends into a green patch,
which muffles its approach.
Then, crawling out of the copse
it swells and clamors toward me.
On the farm, scale means little.
What’s a mile against
the immensity of clear, blue sky
over rolling plains?