About an hour from Des Moines,

within the contours of the banks

of a valley carved by slow streams

whose ancient names we’ve forgotten,

a big bluestem

dies of old age.

On higher ground, verdant cropland

who has forgotten how to mourn

carries on expedited growth;

it’s harvesting time soon enough.

No one person knows the lifespan

of a big bluestem. Were its roots

sent quivering by footfalls of

bison? Or only steel combines?

What languages held on the wind

brushed past its brittle swaying stalks?

English? Pennsylvania

Dutch? Potawatomi?