Sunflower Angel, Come West

The sound of an airplane streaks across the sky,
Reverberating off the windows of the cabin,
Burying itself in the light of the evening sun.
Out there, on a hill above the reed stalks,
Children swing on a tire underneath an oak tree,
Jeering in delight as the radio plays Springsteen
From the porch where their grandmother watches.
A leaf flies by, reoriented by discontinuities of
Breezes that twist around the tangerine meridian,
Telling stories of barnyard mythologies
That so lit the campfires of weary travelers.
The smell of barbecue sauce percolates adrift,
Simmered by the charcoal blazing beneath
Grills that grid the ridden fields of grain.
Lost entropies brewed from a patio cauldron
Record the prolix of girls making stew,
Whose parents, after a long day of greasy drudgeries,
Seek solace in the garden, where a solitary dog
Rolls in the dirt with a kite it had captured.
Off in the distance, the crack of a baseball bat

Wedges in time the parabola of a shooting star
That arcs through the amber air above faces in awe,
Saluting a flag out on the bleachers
Blowing proudly ‘neath a flock of migrating orioles.
O sunflower angel, how I wish you were here
Dancing your way through these summers that singe
The farm-laden flanks of the heartland ridges,
Warming the country terrace that burned
For eagles that dared to soar westward.