When wandering the back roads of the plains,
where waving grass makes way for corn and wheat,
secluded from the noise of speeding trains,
you leave behind the fractured asphalt street.
There, ghosts from august herds may yet remain,
the thunder almost felt beneath your feet
as native horsemen flush their bison prey,
and others force the herd in disarray.
An arrow in the heart, a bison spins
and promptly drops while others are pursued.
The chase complete, they load the meat and skins
to consummate their quest for warmth and food.
Tonight they celebrate, a feast begins,
and then the season's hunting will conclude.
At times the festival still breaks the hush
of evening plains among the sedge and brush.
friends and confidants
caution; you have to keep
looking over your shoulder.
Jealous co-workers are watching,
waiting for private indiscretions
to prove they, not you, deserve advancement.
They can't compete with your intelligence
or experience, so they conspire
to find your hidden skeletons.
Looking over your shoulder
can be a tiresome chore,
distracting you from
Jack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana.