These fields once glowed with
the fires of Native Americans.
The plows still turn up their remains:
stone axes, arrowheads, broken pottery.
The cash crops feed on their bones.

High in the fencerow trees, the few remaining
hawks cry like lost spirits, and at night
the breeze carries the melancholy calls
of a dwindling number of owls.

Sometimes in the early morning, before
the sounds of the world begin, you can
imagine how it once was. You can begin to
understand the song of the mourning doves.