A meadowlark sings
in the field across the way
where a young girl lies,
stone silent,
playing a game of patience
with the prairie dogs
and watching
the dry wind shake the grass.
She looks at the world she can touch,
but she sees the others:
the worlds of language, of sound,
of story and sight.
Worlds of where? and when?
She can touch those too,
if she tries hard enough.
She tries.
Alone, she walks the treadways of her mind
from one word-land to another,
waiting out the day
in the fields of thought
as the larksong travels up her spine
and into her memory.
