I-35 S

Flint Hills, February 2017

I have never felt wind like in Wichita
my whole body blown sideways when I
step out of the car:
gusts, I have to grab the door
hair strewn around my face
like the grass that stretches for five hundred
miles: an ocean, those hills.
Blue sky trailed with horsetail
plumes, thinned near to nothing.
Wire fences meant to keep something
out—or in—seem useless in all
this space. No lines here, only
waves.
Another hour to the border
the only thing I see are hawks and
horses—their lives made private by
emptiness.
I think from above the hills might look
like a sky. All borders erased,
easing together in the middle until that
is gone too.

 

 

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