llllllllllll the sun has room enough to make whole shadows of clouds
lllllllllllllupon terrain known as kansas
where a continuous yet flimsy wire-woodenpost fence guides the two-lane highway lllllllllllllsupporting a greyhound going one way
lllllllllllllllllllllllllland a peoria charter going the other.
make no mistake,
lllllllllllllwe're not settlers on this western prairie
lllllllllllllwe're not staying long enough, and some of us aren't even awake.

chin rests on knuckles, shoulder smushes against window,
llllllllllllleyes watching the land stand still;
lllllllllllllafter all, it's the bus (with me inside) that does the flying by.

"american" doesn't describe the landscape;
lllllllllllllthis space sitting blurringly still isn't kansas, you don't cross a line into colorado.
this part of america is defined not by the presence of people, but by the wind that carves, llllllllllllwhistling its song of ghostly vastness
lllllllllllllllllllllllllover dried-up streams
llllllllllllllllllllllllldead-grass-golden hills
lllllllllllllllllllllllllthe backs of benevolent bovine
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll skimming the tumbleweed along…

glancing up from out, now approaching the golden arches of mctropolis,
llllllllllllit sometimes wears an arby's hat
llllllllllllpromising intestinal havoc;
this is american landscape,
llllllllllllso is the train out there that classically parallels the road.
the distinctive american stamp:
llllllllllllany town with nine or more people has a baseball field.

there is also farmland, both meat and wheat
and occasional proof that rickety windmills still creak in the prairie breeze,
llllllllllllbut are the only wild animals the silhouetted birds V-sweeping the sky?

as the edge of the road-pavement and grass-smears along the bottom of my window,
llllllllllllla feathery dark mass seizes my stare.
the regal hawk puffs out his chest
lllllllllllllsubtly poised in a tree's mid-march skeleton
lllllllllllllsurveying the vista, ruler of everything his eye pierces
llllllllllllllllllllllllllunflinchingly oblivious to the concrete arteries
llllllllllllllllllllllllllpumping people empowered by sedans.

lllllllllllllif the years did 75 down a lonely highway,
lllllllllllllllllllllllllthis bus and those cars passed the people we inaccurately dub
"indians"
lllllllllllllllllllllllll("native americans" in a spasm of political correctness)
a long ways back;
lllllllllllllllllllllllllas a matter of fact,
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllwe left 'em drunk off our dust.

time and driving fade the silver spur motel into the rusty spur saloon
lllllllllllllloutside a colony of crumbling ranch shanties.
llllllllllllllsome were promised paint jobs, others knew they'd survive without 'em.

a grove of trees sprouts on the horizon
llllllllllllllsoon dusk will drive seamlessly into dark
lllllllllllllland the grove will go with it,
and in another hour, the color on the other side of the window
will begin to look like the underside of my eyelids.

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