Old Mother Wichita wets with twilight.
Blackjacks bruise purple but for the green
lichen half-rubbed away hip-high
to an old bison's itch.
A rich robe of Indian Blanket sways and drapes
the hill to hollow hovered
by a red-tailed hawk circling
in the blue becoming gold becoming thick
with cicadas, fireflies,
and mockingbird song.
Summer light dies slow,
lingers lazy and long.
Then she sighs herself into a star
for night to wish upon.
For Midweek Motif~Nature: Her Words at Poets United