The wren bubbles over.
The voice of the bob-white
is clear as a glass of water
Out of sight in last year’s grasses,
the pheasant drums his wings.
The baby squints and blinks, swings her head around to look
when the pheasant crows, when the swallow dips down
I like her interpretation of this low sound. –Hannah Fleming, age 15.
I lift this child to grassland,
to kingbird, to cedar and sumac,
to long roots hidden like a deer in the draw.
Under the shells of these dry grasses
a green strength comes.