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Fossil-pocked limestones scrimshaw the top soil and dare a rasp to hone its plow. Burnished switchgrass transfigures green when last years’ dregs catch fire. It takes a hedge of Osage orange to spare the primrose. Summers are torrid, lusty trysts, and falls—brief amber flings. Out of the blue, nips fray the breeze and squirrel-away cottonwood tailings deep in bovine potholes. Tufts of coyote fur gather for the snows that will soon salt away old conestoga wounds, and I am vigilant: the lavender spiderwort lifts her skirt but once. Honeysuckle only flaunt to serve their roots.
