I wanted to tell you
how cold
the grass looked
in February.
How startling
it was to see it,
as though
we were flying
over the tundra
of Canada;
the Caribou fanning
out in front of us,
while the winds
pushed the grass
in sweeping
from the blades
of the helicopter,
until the Caribou
were gone;
their hides melting
into the beige
of the grass
where it rolled
in the medium
beside us,
like waves now,
where I watched it
in silence,
through the dinge
of my car window,
foot on the brake pedal,
and waited for the light
to turn.

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