Here we have
the western meadowlark: he haunts
the wind-rippled pools of grass between
the heavy hooded cedars and the firs,
where the scars of Indian-set fires
have faded to weed and lupine.
But I heard him first in a trash field
where rolls of barbed wire fence
dripped rust onto abandoned concrete walls;
I was alone, shut out, fleeing real
or imagined injuries, but I stopped:
shocked, appalled, and grateful,
that cowering in some
industrial parody of “a dip or depression
such as a cow footprint”
and fleeing persecution
far more systematic than mine,
he would still bring his flute out of his coat,
and play for himself, for his two wives,
and even for his enemy.
In response to this Morning Porch post.