Pale as all the pawnee grasslands,
blue shades cling drily to their roots:
wilderness fades, snapped in our hands;
dust and prairie ants laying hold
of this spring, bare and clean
as unbreathed air. But now — the press
of a storm is coming in:
the startled ripple of a bird
just out of reach, a gathering
of the breezes. The earth raises
up a dry ground, blurring
where the sky meets.
We lean into the sex of rain,
the little bouquet waiting
by the low winter-carved bed of the plain,
while long grass found deep in the dark
mud of a mountain's thaw
shifts slightly, opening the raw
desert to the clouds.
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