The Eight O Five

The t(rain)
again this morning, sky always gray,
grain cars f(lying)
like blackbirds with fieldseed
in their bellies.

The eight o five carrying
g(rain)
sings like tribes
when they migrated north in summer
across the plains
following tracks of herds.

High water into trees.
The lake full of rain.
We say it is someone else
pushing down on the lake
to make it spill over its edge.

While we wait
the woman earth sings with the tribes,
transforms herself
into all things.

After the train
b(rush) burning, the delay of smoke
in the car comes after
we have passed like sound.

Rain hangs fringe from earth woman’s dress.
She holds the delay of truth
until it comes from our mouths.

Coyotes sleep on her lap,
birds fly into the b(ranches) of her hair
while farther down the road
the black snake train wiggles behind her ear.