WAITING AT THE LEK
In the mist-black dawn,
house finches rustled
in the leaf-bare cottonwood.
Prairie wind celloed
through withered grass.
Above the plain,
ancient leks were quiet
until sharp-tailed grouse
began to display. their purple sacs
oboed into the brightening day.
As afternoon dusted
into evening gray,
sandhill cranes, heads
capped in port wine red,
returned to the Platte.
Flocks flew in from
the fields covering
silted waters
like a growing blanket.
Traditional mounds disappear
under shopping malls,
rivers are drained for fountains.
Fields over-grazed,
the orchestra fades.
Charlotte Poetry Review
