Sites

Golden hill, round as the firm breast
of a woman on her back -- it's broken open:

a scar one-third of the way up
marks where the rust-spotted bulldozer's parked.

Reddish dirt, congealed blood of Mother Earth,
reveals sandstone and rock white as bone.

Brown cow, peer up from around the quiet
pasture, your sleek flanks glossy in the sun.

There is nothing from which to run,
merely burnished August days in a string, blended into one,

as hazy and amber-colored as Summer's end.
A buzzard flies high above, her neck bent.