All that comes to me now
is the prairie, how it is empty
to the casual eye, how you walk
or see for miles, alone,
how you wonder ever why
on the absence of your fellow creatures.

Will you get another dog? it asks me,
or a grandmother, or husband, or son?

Do they make more? I ask back.
I think not.

Alive in its own work
of flowers and bees,
oaks and woodchucks,
the prairie is barren to my eyes,
and I am a puzzle to it.
As I wade through its brush,
my heart hollow as lead
twitches feral for good work.