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