Poem: in Fireworks, fall 1992
Saskatchewan
A breath of prairie air.
In spring
the breeze blows moist and cool,
across pastures of thawing whiteness,
ice cracks,
water runs in secret streams under thin crusts of snow;
and the crocus
so soft,
so brave,
stands on the warming hillside;
the meadowlark calls,
across the boundless fields.
A breath of prairie air.
in summer
the warm wind serves up sage and clover,
sweet grass and hay,
the rich smell of dust
released from the earth
after a downpour,
the click and buzz of insects,
and hawks hunched on fence posts,
waiting.
A breath of prairie air.
In fall
gusts of winds rustle and billow grain,
combines roll over golden fields;
smoke shrouds banks by railroad tracks
where weeds and stubble burn;
V’s of geese call,
across the autumn sky,
‘We’re going. We’re nearly gone.”
A breath of prairie air.
In winter,
crunching, creaking snow calls us,
squealing tires beg for traction;
city streets, steamy with exhaust and breathing,
are full of puffing people;
nights are so clear, so cold, that only the stars are alive,
and you can almost touch them.
—Amber Harvey