Sometimes,
after the rain,
the prairie blooms
purple, yellow, white, pink.
And the hills
roll softly green down
to ponds so blue
they're purple.

Cloud shadows
float over the
black earth,
herded by the
crying winds.

And somewhere,
on a hill by the
winding white
ribbon of road,
stands a poet.

But he says nothing,
writes nothing,
only stands and looks.

Then sighs and
walks away.