Recorded in a haze of aspen saplings

Above the cliffs along the Jaun de Fuca strait are fragments of prairie,
and when I walk dutifully on the asphalt paths
beside the Meadow barley, Nodding onion and Nootka rose,
I nod to the spirits within,
in recognition
of a bone-deep bond
with the grasses, forbs and shrubs that still green my prairie blood,
where as a boy I ran,
arms outstretched through shoulder-high wild rye.
I was called into the silver tunnels of willow and buffaloberry,
knelt as one knighted at the Indigo Milk Caps,
sailed a scrap-lumber frigate held fast by spike and rope
through battalions of bullrush,
their velvet heads bursting up small clouds of down.
Coyotes held my head above sleep in windless nights
and tri-toned trains poured poems into sedge-lined skylines.
My birth is recorded in a haze of aspen saplings
on the crest of the Whitesand River,
where swallows of mercy inhabit a mud-chinked log house
that stands as a cenotaph
to the plowers and mothers and hard long hours,
where windrows of scrub brush burned far into winter,
where moldboard and share,
cut sod, bled summerfallow,
and bouts of drought and blankets of hail
gave way to a red barn, white chickens and bins of barley,
where a pine-trimmed house
saw the coming and parting of five children, all
dreaming of voyages beyond the bush-belted yard,
where now, through some trick of time, I walk
among the joyful spirits of goldenrod, blue stem and sagebrush,
listening to the drumming angels of the great plains,
aflame with a desire I can’t name,
and happy for it.