Black shadows, whitewashed walls of empty silos
ripple under the ruins of the sun.
A widow on the porch, gray earth cracked, puckered,
dying locusts creep toward the west.
I dream of a voice slow, flying, sowing seeds
in the dark clouds rushing in from the south.
The voice sings a language I do not understand
but the music is familiar as childhood.
After the long sundown —
the quiet of the night, the rhythm of the rising moon
and the feathers it lays on this tortured land.