Greasy Grass Country

North Dakota Prairie  Hills

In the tongue of the Dakotah
it is the country of the grass.
The grass that’s 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 that’s 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.

A reminder

that spirit never sleeps
In the country of the grass
that’s greasy in the wind

Autumn Air

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.


I wonder how they got that name

peacock tails I think

would be closer to the truth of it.

You never see them in the summertime

only on those high sky winter days

are the rainbows there.

I used to think when I was young

that they’re a kind of Northern Light 

encircling the sun

or faery rings

planted by some winter sprite…

It’s when the air’s so cold 

it flays the skin from my face.

So cold and still

I feel a need to whisper

that to break the silence 

would be somehow seen a sin.

It’s then the sundogs 

silently erupt and effervesce

in their kaleidoscopic dance of hues 

around a winter sun