There have been rare sightings in their history of existence,
but specialists believe that they have pin pointed their realm,
settled within the pockets of the prairie
lovingly named, Off the Grid,
where the wind carries the conversation
and bounties of golden grass, blooms and weeds
humor it with chatter.
The clouds roam,
mirror edged reflection of the shifting shoulders of mountain goats as they mow through their migration
interrupted by the fledged folk who erupt
feathers fanned out like fingers reaching for the ever blue sky,
weaving around the legendary
Prairie Girl,
who stands in the epicenter of this ancient space,
hidden in the pupil of a wayward world,
bowed over as she collects berries,
her palms dyed the same shades of Levi’s
she knew better than a face who frequents drifting nightmares.
She washes stains away in the basin sink
weaving her ringed hands in the warm water
fed by the well,
not her wishes.
She kneads through the bulbous bodies of berries,
weeds through them thoroughly,
discarding the dried pockets of seed to the creatures she coexists with,
exchanging life with life,
a behavior that is noted as bold when you take into consideration
Winter sheds everything,
no matter how kind it is to share,
scientists believe that Prairie Girl does not care,
that the season has fangs made of ice,
which break on anything that isn’t brittle already,
their voices etched in her mind when she isn’t busy,
but she always is,
shepherding through the gold that veils her burrow,
a cottage adorned with windows
so that she can blend in with the
rushed fields,
meld into the grasses,
grow like the berries,
breathe like the wind,
and survive like the mountain goats do
as they drift from crags to earth
by instinct, not impact.