Going for a drive
is fun to do.

With Great-Uncle
at the wheel
of an ancient
red pick-up
that trundles down
the dusty white road
in the heat of
the mid-afternoon.

The windows are down
and the wind
hisses in the long grasses
and ripples across pastures
cut short by
cattle and sheep
and dotted with summer
wildflowers.

In the verdant ditches,
red-winged blackbirds
ride on swaying cattails
and trill to the hot sun
as ducks paddle
in nearby potholes.

No, not holes in the road,
small ponds
and lakes that fill up
in the wet spring
and are mere mud
come late August.

Miles of white road
lay straight across
the rolling land,
and you can see forever,
almost to the lake,
where you'll watch
whitecaps crash
against the rock-shored
and treeless shore.

Maybe you'll go fishing,
maybe not.
Maybe you'll go for a swim,
though you've forgotten
to wear your swimsuit.
Maybe you'll pick
wild tigerlilies
and purple coneflower
and black-eyed susans
for your grandmother.

Or maybe you'll
just go for a walk,
up the hill,
on top of the world,
where the brilliant
blue skies
shine above,
and the fluffy white clouds
cast fast-moving shadows,
pushed by the
prairie winds.

Going for a drive
is exciting;
the possibilities
are as endless
as the prairie itself
and bound only
by the curving horizon
and the high-arching sky.