A poem for those of us on the High Plains
I am prairie grass,
Never-been-plowed
Beneath my feet
Frogs and crawdads soak in old buffalo wallows
Above my head
Hawks and buzzards fly scouring the plains
At high noon in summer
The sun is only a pinprick in the sky
In dead of winter
Mice burrow underground, and quail huddle as a covey
I am prairie grass,
With thistle, sunflower, and Indian paintbrush
Blowin’ in the wind
Clint Burke, Esq.
Flat Creek Law, PLLC
cburke@flatcreeklaw.com
“That poem came from a decent place. That’s what matters.” — Clint Burke
