The farmer in me cries when I see
another highway scratched thru the soil.
But the farmer in me is a bug.
He took a few long scratches out of the earth,
himself, from the plains that were there
A sea of stalks heaving
grasses carried the boats
of bison, mammoths pounding,
Soft-shoed feet slinking
respectfully through the mist.
A burn takes it down,
enriches its core,
it comes back again after again.
And now I know my scratching
has wiped it clean, no prairies left.
I have to dig, year after year,
I have to plant and weed
and harvest, year after year,
where the prairie once renewed itself
again after again.