The flood is falling
from furrows between cornstalks.
A heavy carp flops.
The Worm in the Eye, dedicated to Pamela Christine Childers, 2002
I suck on the tender shoots of sweet grass as I contemplate “My Prairie,” a homestead of thoughts with a tie to the pastoral life of calves and cooks and kitchens and corn silk. I read through Black Elk Speaks and studied the vision quest of Crazy Horse. I walked in the feathery, rough rhythm to the whispering of the native grasses and the sound of the tractor. I embraced the prairie life as a child would, fearful of butchering day, but unafraid to eat its slaughter.
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