bigger (12/17/82)
Where the sun shines somewhere on the plain the Dakota cry down their bottles about the fence they sit upon from the bottles bottom they contemplate the wire that neatly cleaves the land stretched between the poles feet dangle on their grassy side backs to rich fields of wheat shining in an evening sun (and a buffalo murmur moves on a wind across the flat table of land that preserves an idleness) two hundred years ago there was no wheat, but neither was there glass and now when a long sun touches the empty bottle and the far line of sky and fence they wonder, behind a deeper red, a bottle tinted, ruddy face, from where among their preserved grassland comes the next harvest of rye.