Think of the farmer who stood alone
on a prairie looking through tomorrow
leaning on that man-made fence
bordering a distant yet goodly neighbor.
Ponder some great-uncle
who could not stand silent
so mastered the bagpipe
keeping sound as constant companion.
Open prairies absorbed the cacophonies
and a man's heart begged for dust
or a rain that carried life not yet formed.
When does it happen, that a trick of quiet,
a turn, natural to a prairie man's head
is itched in ritual, while dangling
a hat or catching a whistle of memory
in the brush of his hair. The best of himself
shown in quiet gestures. Like tossing seeds
from callosed hands; creating landscapes
for an expansive God.