"Still-Life with Buffalo"
By K.J. Hascall
Revised 6/15/06
I cannot write lofty prose about Trafalgar Square,
for I have never set foot on English soil –
neither can I comment upon the Chinese rain,
for I've never paced the causeways of the Great Wall –
I'll write no poem considering the ocean off the Spanish shore;
the great Sahara is no more to me than a vast streak of saffron-indigo.
Instead I contemplate the Great Plains
as they rush past my windshield at 55 miles per hour.
They have their own brand of beauty: the green-brown strand of rolling
hills variety;
of bluffs rising like ancient sentinels battered by waves of ragged wind;
of blue skies so vast storms wander reckless;
and loneliness, too: the only buffalo for miles stands on three legs,
its shaggy mane full of warrior memories.
This is the land of my ancestors and so I feel a strange kinship to it.
My mind spins and my hands itch to capture each moment
and each movement of the grass and clouds and antelope.
Yet the highway takes me farther from this place,
and I count the yellow lines on the road to keep from crying.
The Rocky Mountains in their grandeur may loom over my home and in my heart,
but it is the desolate beauty of the Nebraska prairie I cannot forget.
