This past summer I drove through Montana. As a Pennsylvanian I experience the dry prairie and open space with a combination of awe and grief. And sometimes I found an object of human occupation or activity to wonder about.
Wheat grass and thickspike
sprout at the red barn’s gnarled corners.
Sun queens cluster and conspire
ignoring dried groaning timbers.
“You are alone,” young man,
the dust-flung prairie whispers.