two standing on the prairie,
shovels in hand--a third at their feet;
he knows no haste, but the diggers do,
for the sun is rising higher, hotter

the herd, the other hands
are plodding north, only their dust
left in the morning sky; the caliche
is baked hard, waiting

for the shovels to dig
a shallow grave, unmarked,
though there is a lone flower,
yellow against a gray plain

the blossom will be his headstone, until
its roots take their last drink, its stem withers,
its petals fall to the earth, and a wild
wind song becomes their dirge