for the Zumwalt Prairie, a.k.a. the Hills, Eastern Oregon
1
Liquid land, you flow smooth
as drifting dunes,
you flow like a wish
of wind.
You sweep
and swoosh—in a glide, you lift
my eyes. I ride, waiting for
your first wingbeat.
2
Green swept your slopes
as herds one day would flow,
they thought. So few trees
to forbid them—
Eyes glided your curves,
grass hills leaning open,
valleys for seed—you were round,
you were smooth
and they blamed you.
Deaf to your warning
of buried bones,
their plows cracked your roots
loud as gunshots.
3
We come to you
briefly, just to camp, just to see.
One man gazes out on your surge and lull,
says while we dream you’ll make boats of our tents
and lift us, sleeping, up the next slope.
If one ankle cracks, we’ll motor to shore
so why on your sea do I feel an unease,
why with the beach beyond my horizon—
Your waves, your hills, never crest, never break,
only swell, only sink,
only swell.
4
Today your kestrel circles, cries
Glee! to nestlings. Dangling from her clutch
a dead snake swings.
In your easy glide,
your lack of crag and scraggle,
how could I see plump
pasture, land less
than wild?
Homesteaders hefted your rock—
you swallowed their sweat,
their fences, their sheep.
Once I thought walls
contained the world.
My shoulders
are too small to bulge
your throat: you could drink
my every room down.
5
A cloud sweeps your brushstroke hills
with shadow. I cannot sail you.
I step. I crunch.
I sit. I look down. Snaggletooth leaves
ruffle up from smooth ground.
Through binoculars a butterfly
—I wonder what you call him—
he tongues
a calf rib, knowing bone
will weep a drink.
Here on the steep, low snowberry shrubs
stop my slide down your slope.
For years you held humans
who cradled your names.
Show me, grassland, your wild will
to keep.
6
I curve an open palm
and warm one bunch of wheatgrass,
feel the grip of roots,
feel you give, feel you wave.
Wind flows downslope,
stalks leave my hand,
wind presses grain
white to the ground.
Grass swishing up:
Touch me again.
Teach my white
back to bow.
Flex my lips
to your name.
—
Kelly Fine lives in Austin, Texas, where she is lucky enough to spend several hours a day in a small backyard, working on a laptop in live oak shade. Find more of her writing in venues like Ecotone, Bellingham Review, Confrontation, and 350 Seattle’s climate zines—and more on the Zumwalt prairie in the many Fishtrap anthologies she has contributed to and edited. Kelly’s favorite place in the world is the chaparral at the edge of Altadena, California, her home for many years.
