Somewhere south of US 36
along the line of Kansas 63,
you can see where rolling farmland
begins its transition into the Flint Hills.
On a day like yesterday,
the smoke of the stacks
at the Jeffrey power plant
lays out wind speed and direction:
twin white flumes stretched out horizontal
with only the slightest rise
above the low wide column
of the cooling tube.
Tall tan blades of last year’s prairie grass
bend in our passing,
the greens of brome and fescue
show through the black-ashed slates
of burned pastures and road banks,
the impossible sheen of winter wheat
springing up after April’s fresh rains.
I’ll take this drive any day of the week
over whatever waits
in the folders and files of my office:
these miles of fields and farms,
old frame houses and stone-post fences
blending in the constant changing
of God’s good seasons.