Or: If Emily Dickinson Had Lived in the Great Plains
Editor’s note: please enjoy this fully original, AI-free poem from yours truly. To listen to my audio recording of this poem, visit my Substack. (And consider subscribing, too, while you’re there.)
“Here, the eye learns to appreciate slight variations, the possibilities inherent in emptiness.” – Kathleen Norris, Dakota
The meadowlark is the only bird you need
if you want to make a prairie
(as someone once sensibly suggested).
For the meadowlark is the only bird
whose song can fill the pitcher of prairie
sky and sound across the grassy swells
in a single, mighty trill. It’s a song
both big and fast, able to cover all
distances both out and up, wide and deep.
Once you have the meadowlark, the other
birds can take their place to complete the theme—
grouse, spotted towhees, redwing blackbirds,
buntings, burrowing owls, and all the rest.
But first, get yourself a meadowlark to
take the edge off the brimming emptiness
of such a place, so exposed and expansive,
all grass and forbs, with hardly a tree
for shelter and shade from your discomfort.
This is why you’ll need an evening primrose
when you go about making a prairie,
to keep you company when the birds
settle down at dusk. The white and yellow
blooms welcome the vesper light and take up
the meadowlark’s song all through the swirling
black of night, sharing their glory with the
spheres when all other flowers conceal theirs.
Larks, primrose, clover, bees, stars, and planets—
so much, so little, all necessary
for the keeping of open horizons
and the endurance of deep down things.
