Once Upon a Time in the American Midwest

Black shadows, whitewashed walls, empty silos
ripple under the ruins of the sun.
The porch leans, the earth cracked,
exhausted 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 upon this tortured land.