http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d4tkiGvV_ek
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and the windmill in the pasture tilts its head sideways, as if to
see the plain floor from a different angle – it is the tallest structure
for miles and above it, the clouds are thin and sporadic, like heart murmurs.
the cows with their four stomachs and cud stand in the combs of alfalfa,
in the distance, their udders swinging like fleshly chandeliers and their
hides mapped by amoebas of black and white. you can smell them
from the freeway – a smell not altogether unpleasant, an early morning smell,
a smell of rubber boots and fresh, baled sweetgrass.
he sits on the fence with the banjo in his lap and the brim of his
hat tipped up – he plays to the cows. the little, runted wildflowers
are soft and never repeated, like kisses at the altar and his notes, o-shaped
and sticky fill the latesummer evening. the flatness of the land crouches
in and you can see the electrical lines stretching on, the poles crooked and
wobbling, like sealegs, dutiful and natural, and the air smells of
rain in the distance, plumbing the horizon. he sits on the fence and plays,
his fingers moving up and down the strings, like white, intelligent spiders
in their dances of web and spindle. he sings low and barely opens his mouth
and he sings songs that his father taught him about lowland hills and widows
and little wordless songs, which he sings when he is tired of singing of people,
because they make him sad. the anomalous poppies stick their tongues out
and slur like pottymouths and the birds on the telephone wires stand apart
and repeating in their fractionals and shuffling remainders.
on the plains, in the pastures, when the sun bottoms out on the horizon, it
becomes dark, and he walks home, and the milkweed shudders aside as he
walks, nipping and sighing, like lovers refused. the cows moan, the sun turns
orange and swaddles the clouds and he watches as the stars come out
and his banjo is slung over his shoulder, white and orbed –
an undiscovered moon.
the widowed windmill creaks and paddles behind him in the stillness.
the mushrooms turn up like fingerless thimbles.
