Late January, Somewhere Toward Western Kansas
Phil Yearout
Cocooned within this moving assemblage of dissimilar shapes
brought together for common purpose – duffle bags, shell boxes,
gun cases. The flotsam and jetsam of the road layered on the front
seat; Tom Russell CD growling Gallo del Cielo, subliminally
suggesting spicy, and cheap.
Tacos and enchiladas later, the sky pulled down all around like
an old hat and pearl gray as the inside of an oyster; the heater at
war with the windows, cracked open against beer farts and burley smoke;
A Dollar’s Worth of Gasoline; gaining on the miles now, half
way shrinking in the mirror.
Undulating waves of Canadas and mallards strafing the
snow-streaked stubble, banking hard toward food and shelter;
The Sky Above, the Mud Below; bare trees on the far, flat
horizon, branches spreading like hairline cracks across a
slim, peeled slice of moon.
Winter’s early evening crouching just beyond the searching
headlights, snowflakes like moths in the low beam, settling on
the bluestem; the songs still coming, finely crafted and honed sharp:
Prairie in the Sky; Wind on the Buffalo Grass; Home Before Dark –
no, not quite, but soon.
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