This is tame country,
where the runner at sunset
thinks to fear only
LED-brights of pickups
fueled by Keystone Light and Iraqi oil.
Tonight’s evening sky is lavender
with meadowlark gold
at the horizon’s western edge.
There’s comfort here,
knowing the town lights glitter in the trees
at one’s back, even as the forward light
fades over the empty corn fields,
its pace in tune with the tattoo
of thudded steps on gravel, each
raising dust enough to slow the roll
of sweat on the runner’s ribs and shin bones.
There’s comfort here,
knowing there’s time left yet
to make the turning point
at the tracks running northwest by north,
Time left to see
the iron bands quiet and bright
as when in the forge.
And at the turning point,
when the runner’s chest
pounds and a braking step kicks up dust
the peepers in the ditch
fall silent with fear.
The peeps then rise when the runner’s footfalls
becomes the rhythm of the gravel road again.
Yet in the field a tailless cat picks along,
its bubble of silence in the corn stubble
reverberating back to
where bison ghosts look
with dark eyes,
waiting to thunder plowed earth
beneath their hooves.
ABOUT:
Rob Briwa is a park ranger, a geographer, and a sometimes writer. He also, apparently, meets a lot of cats in corn fields at dusk. This makes sense, as he currently lives in Nebraska. His past creative writing appears in Montana Mouthful and New Mexico Review, but he is excited to make his poetry debut in Dipity Magazine!
EDITOR'S SONG PAIRING: Furious Hooves — Jeff Haley - Last Week
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