Wolf River flows dark down to Colorado.
The one far sound
A car out at the crossroads.
The blacktop runs to gravel, runs to grass,
Black mesas jut sharp shoulders to the night.
The prairie speaks in rolling swells of ink
That swamp the four far corners of the sky.
Not even insects sing.
Late August saps their strength
And snaps a cold wave clear across the plain.
The only world alive lies in the air;
The flaming chain of the Milky Way,
The sideways fuzz of faint stars,
The ever-upward falling of the dark.
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