Louis Copt

Prairie Dancer

_________________

“I do more painting—

when I’m not painting.”

—Andrew Wyeth

__________________

I was driving back—

From the elevator there

In Formosa…

At night the prairie—

Was lunar and full of that

Spectral kind of thing…

The stubble fields—

Still warm in the torrid

August afterglow…

___________________

The dirt roads—

They’re silent and

Hushed in the dark…

All the old farmers—

They’re dying and the

Land is for sale…

Old farmhouses—

And machinery waste

Away into rust…

_________________

A brief interlude—

The windows down

Sipping a cool one…

Driving down thru—

Cool creek ravines

Up sad hills…

Who was she—

The one dancing

Out in the wheat?