In late August
the pungent sage
blooms silvery green.

The fields are lacquered in gold,
dotted with goldenrod,
golden puffs, miniature sunflowers,
yellow clover, and butter and eggs.

Shades of purple clover
and blooming thistle
and silvery green prairie pea
with dark purple florets
play shadows to the sunny light
of their fellow blooms.

Out on the hills,
buckthorn sports
waxy white berries,
the cactus too.

Overhead, the sky
spills brilliant blue
from horizon to horizon
while small wisps of clouds
scud by
on the cool prairie winds.

The pastures grasses
wave and undulate
in the stiff breeze
like waves on the sea
while overhead,
white crescents of gulls
circle and swoop
like passing telephone wires.

The land is dry,
but blue-grey herons
stalk the still
wet sloughs
and fowl of all kinds
flock and flutter,
preparing for the journey

the sumac will burn
brilliant red,
and frost will rime the sloughs
and cattails in the ditches
will bloom fuzzy
and shed.

The hunters will come
from miles around
to hunt pheasant in the buckthorn
and ducks in the reeds
and deer in the weeds.

But it is still August
and frost is kept at bay
by the brilliant sun
reflected in the golden blooms
and shadows of the fields.