you’ll believe
in seatbelts riding down the slope
off Osawatomie hill.
the dust alone can choke
a coyote, and drivers in pick-me-ups
learn to harness up and let the ruts bounce
them around.
you won’t hit your
head too hard and the dust will settle,
leaving you a view of corn fields
overlapped by white-washed
fog, gently
lifting
now, the face
of spring morn waiting
to be kissed.
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