ii

Wild white,
staccato black

Julia’s bobolink stacks hyperbolas
in the air over tallgrass prairie,

flashes melody mid-flight,
something like granddad’s

light love talk, his flashing
eyes, dark, sharp, the smooth

song, the pipesmoke circles
he blew in her eyes

until they bedded in the grass
—and always the bobolink’s

clink-clink, his metallic chirp
in sedge, in cattail,

his molt and skulk in marsh.
She did the wash, hung up sheets,

waited the terrible wait—
Will he migrate south?

No more on quiver-wing
singing, wooing in red clover.

He was like that once.

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