Prairie Psalm with Train in the Distance
Prairie Psalm with Train in the Distance
Dusk lowers its copper basin
over the blackland fields.
Mesquite breath rises: green, resinous;
and somewhere rain is thinking about falling.
Heat loosens its grip by degrees.
Fence wire ticks as it cools.
Crickets begin their metallic stitching
in the seams of grass.
Far off, a train unspools its lonesome ribbon:
iron singing to iron –
a note that holds
longer than the light.
I remember storms that split the sky open,
thunder striking flint from cloud,
the first drop darkening dust
into the smell of birth.
Now stars prick through the vast hide of night,
each one a nerve laid bare.
The moon, pared thin as a blade,
slips between slow-moving clouds.
Nothing here is empty.
Silence hums like a fence alive with current,
like wings testing their weight against air.
Even the shadows breathe:
gathering at the feet of posts,
leaning into the earth’s warm flank.
Under this sky, the body learns
how small it is,
and how wide.
David Anson Lee
David Anson Lee is a physician, philosopher, and a poet, whose writing grows from the intersection of landscape and memory. He creates because language allows him to listen more closely: to wind moving through grass, to silence after loss, to the subtle music beneath ordinary days. Poetry slows the world enough for meaning to surface.