Canoeing on Lake Olathe, September

— or husband

The heron scoops up the thick air

with its blue wings, blue air

above and below, then over

the marsh and cattails, over

the orange glare of sun setting

faster and the cold settling

on my arms and face, your face

following the heron, your face

carved with grey bristles, silver

in the dusk and the lake silver

in the shadow of the heron

landing in her nest of herons,

night joining them, their secret

space, their safety, kept secret.

In the Flint Hills

—1 Thessalonians 5:16

The hackberry tree stands bent, limbs

splayed north, off balance in still air.

Its roots hold fast to limestone plates, bore

through crevices, burrow for water.

Anna’s shoulders are bent and grooved

from her long march through tallgrass

to the spring for today’s water, back

by dawn and prayer at the table.

Her hands grip together in a rock

of gnarled bones, tighter as the sun

rises, as the wind starts to blow.