“Nature includes too much
and art can’t include enough.”
A. R. Ammons, “An Improvisation for the Stately Dwelling”

Prairie grass glows golden,
the honey sun comes to rest
on the table of the butte,
absolute black shadow in gullies,
blue expanse overhead,
shading to red,
sectioned by purple clouds,
a wedge of early moon rises.

The sweep of space unfurled
over this champain ground,

it confronts me,
who I am,
how I got here,
what to make of it now.

A young heron in the marsh,
grayish-blue, dark streaks on its neck,
dusky bill nudging the water,
I want to hold it gently, stroke its long throat,
my brother wants to take it home.
We leave it and go hunt for frogs.
When I looked back, the heron was gone,
as if it had turned into a reed, become some dark space
where I would never dream to look.