BURN The wind then, through seams of bluestem, or switchgrass swayed by a coyote's passing. Where the fabric gapes, Barthes said, lies the sensual. A prairie cut by winding seeps, or winds or shearing wings. Mare's tails, mackerels, cirrus, distance dispersed as light. Under a buzzard's bank and spiral the prairie folds and unfolds. Here between the stands of bluestem, I am interruption. I rake my fingers over culms and panicles. Here seeds burr into my sleeves, spur each hem. In a prairie, I am chance. I am rupture. The wind-- thief, ruffian, quick-fingered sky--snatches a kink of my hair. The broken nap falls, wound round like a prairie snake, a coil of barbed wire, a snare for the unwary. In the fall, volunteer naturalists will wrench invading roots and scour grassy densities with fire. Wick, knot, gnarl, my kindled hair will flare, burn, soften into ash, ash that will settle, sieve through soil, compost for roots to suck and worms to cast out, out into the loess that raises redtop, turkeyfoot, sideoats grama, and all the darkened progenies of grass that reach and strive and shape dissent from light. WIND SHEAR Under the magnolia, a winter-starved hare stills and pretends it is not there, and wanting less of fearfulness I pretend that I do not see my camouflage, the wild promises in my gaze, and step carefully by. Morning, bitter morning-- lack and awful patience wait at every compass point. Mourning, mournful, the prairie seals wind-scored stems with snow. Here inside a stalk of goldenrod a gall wasp will ride hard winter out. Here between my ribs, wasps of lonely, wasps of not yet, not yet wait and ride hard winter out. Such a slow season, laggard and mean. I can't explain the cardinals I've seen of late, but the crows' black fists, the way they bully eave and air, stab the morning with the sharpest awe , I understand it now. I see the reason and agree. A SHINING LURE Beside the back porch a crow hangs a string of meat from the magnolia's limb. Poor garter snake, poor ribbon, no longer container for the reptilian. But still your scales shine, still they school--that we might (couldn't we? shouldn't we?) by shining lure or by the clemency of our body's brief flare deny, fend off, or pierce that coming dark. Excerpted from Yard Show by Janice N. Harrington All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
