In the tongue of the Dakotah it is the country of the grass. The grass thats greasy in the wind For the way it slips and swirls whispers in the breeze catches light like waves in a sea of opalescent green It isn’t just the wind there’s a feeling too thats there of a majesty beneath the sound that slips within my soul. I ask myself sometimes is it an echo of when the world came first to be? A kind of grace note maybe? On an instrument played by God when he holds his finger on the key plays a note so low it almost isn’t there. I wonder too if others hear it or is it only me? I wish that I could climb inside that note somehow feel the world from there. It is the elemental essence that I feel I think.
that spirit never sleeps In the country of the grass that’s greasy in the wind
When the sun is past midway
in it’s austral journey
and it’s starting to appear
a little watered to the eye.
When the temperatures at night
drop well below the freezing mark
and those damn mosquitoes
have long since given up the fight.
When I’m walking through a shelter belt
and fallen leaves
boil up around my feet
and Alice Slough is bivouac
to a hundred thousand ducks and geese.
It’s then the golden days of summer
surrender to the polished amber of the fall.
It’s the air I think,
mostly it’s the air.
Looking at the world
through the crystal Autumn air.