Karen M. Rice


That silently stealing thief, the wind,
passes imperceptibly across these naked hills.
The Wichitas, skeletal remains of a primal range,
have been victims of the robber barons,
Water and Wind, since time out of mind.
Yet the head quickly turns, and the eye
almost perceives ancient motion preserved.
Rusty red and dry, the buffalo grass ripples
as though under the ghostly passage of spirit herds.
A chill to shiver the spine arrives from the northern corner of the world,
And suddenly the autumnal shade is here.