1. 

The night before, lightning

to make the summer wheat quiver,

the night sky pulling the high plain

closer to her expansive breast.

The pup tent, abandoned after

hours—maybe minutes—of

bravery, left to soak

alone in the yard while I,

small, sleep inside the farmhouse.

2. 

The window flies wake up.

Most of them.

3.

The canola field electrifies

the air with a yellow glow as I,

shoeless, step along the still damp dirt

to an unspoiled row of honeysuckle.

Later, the abandoned barn.

Black rubber tubes on the endless Milk River.

A hunt for vermin.

Stalks of Rhubarb to chew

for hours.

4. 

Gravel pokes my feet. I raise my

shoulders to absorb the sting  

of each step.

I approach the gopher, shot,

shaking, her split stomach spilling 

freshly clipped grass,

the warm wood of the rifle

and its hot black muzzle

in my hand.