The moon

is a soft pinprick

in a sky

so expansive

even Ursa 

Major seems minor.

A dog barks

and ghost voices 

echo down Indian song—

piercing the Osage hills.

Grasses are weather-worn

and wild; wild-

flowers lay dormant—

everything abides green days.

Besides, cold weather slants

in from the north, taking the plains,

where a few days ago 

hot winds came 

up from the Gulf of Mexico,

fooling the dogwood,

and fires seared the earth

the color of burnt toast.

Miles, miles of dry grass 

and sky 

in every direction--

binding grasses,

four-color wildflowers, 

and forbs pressed between pages,

tangled in bluestem.

And there, where bison stood

at noon, sheltered 

by blackjack oak,

only shadows—

unruly apparitions,

under the Osage moon, 

awaiting the culling

of their existence.