They say when you leave the prairie
you toss your soul to the wind

to float, late-blown
as a wisp
from a fairy-seeded flower,
to be carried

from field to field,
swept from the ruffle of wheat
across a hundred acres

over the silver slope
of a city

beyond the calamity
of geese

to a place of quiet
under the rippled wing
of grouse, where the constancy
of the earth keeps its promises.

We like to think we can bargain
with these broken bodies

and we go on,
blinded by the skies,

peeling the feathers
from our own soft flesh.