Lodge Poles

Sunlight and grainy dust
sepia
lodge poles in the trees
waved an old man down
standing still
willow twig between fingers
grainy and dry
slowly up and down
his tired gait
and why always so
beat down
the gravel road?
washboard and rising rust
the fence posts burned
and black
wind-licked flames

Running
hip-swinging
shoulder low
John Deer hat
sun-soaked beet field
running into the road
long, long road
river of black and white
yellow paint spattered on dry crosses
cross themselves
and rocks from winter beet fields

Limping
into the haze
the thinning veiled horizon
toward wind-blown flames
and off the roadside
in soft, budding, brittle grass
a cement drum tossed tipsily aside
flaked yellow paint
flowers in the green
rests open-mouthed, gaping
toward the long thin road
the ribbon of melted dissonance.