This land of the big exhalation
spaces its hay bales like hobbit villages.
Descendents of sod people do not take well
to stricture, to change, that in the sweep
of a winter blizzard makes tomorrow unlikely.
Here the scream of the lonely outraces the landscape,
decibels rolling over the grassland, but prairies go on
and the decibels falter, finally fade long before the first turn.
Frackers have moved in, but they too will lose their breath.
The aquamarine insulators glow, grinning in the setting sun.