kansas, unsettled

the cold clarity of truth,
low clouds in the east
blocking the sun, but
to the west, billowing
towards the stratosphere,
she watches thunderheads
race upwards, reflecting a light
she can’t see.

the bitch muse comes
in times like this, as
she listens to a song
for the hundredth time,
every moment’s peace
shattered a world away.

these are her favorite days,
wind screaming from the south,
60 degrees at 7 am, a sky
of blue-gray, a field wet and greening,
grass to mow, annuals to plant.

these plains take it all,
indifferent force directed
against a surface sheered by time,
worn down and smooth, waiting.

friends tell her to get out,
get away, a change of scenery,
a new perspective, but no running
and no destination can quiet
the quaking reflection
at the bottom of the well.