We cut the hatchback through the empty plains and stare at the night’s face, its remoteness
like language—the horizon with its flicker of tower lights on wind turbine blades, the
spinning propeller’s oars found and lost between the glowing bulb and blank dark—and
finally surrender to the tug for the unspoiled vista of starlight. The engine goes cold as we
stare above. The tires’ low hum fades from the pit of our teeth. The firmament draws in to
each wavering speck.
Soon, morning fog will wind-sweep to smoke, the burnt prairie’s
shoulders will carry dusk’s shadow and, half-asleep, we will dart across the grassland again,
passing a new, measureless distance: one of charred seed-coats and fields, redbuds rooted in
the dipping plains of spent wicks and pockets of water. One of fires licking ditches along
the interstate. One of milky pink petals blazing among the ash.