Cottonwood and sycamore
line small creeks and long ditches
that bend and twist
through the seams of the Flint Hills.
The white of younger bark
catches the late light of setting sun
while darker shapes dip down
into the burnt umber of cuts and shadows
between the banks.

The long wind of four lane pavement
weaves its way up the last long ridge
just east of El Dorado lake.

Beyond that,
colors of evening sky
begin to darken
from pink into mauve and then purple
while the short trees of flat fields
form black silhouettes
against the flaming
and then fading light.

Contrails of jet flight
crisscross thin white streaks—
illusions of mountain peaks—
in the last settling of light,
fade into the passing dusk.

Bare fields stretch for miles
into the deepening darkness,
roots rest beneath the husks
of dead blades and tan sod,
waiting for warmth and rain

when all of earth will gleam fresh again
in the coming of God’s green season.

H. Arnett
1/30/17