I’d like to be prairie
but am forced to be war.

Grind and not ocean.
Hustle, not canyon.

I once had a voice
of forest and meadow

but am now distant murmur
of ending on fire.

You prefer my former.
How could you not?

My latter leads nowhere.
I don’t want to see.

I’d rather be alone
with sunset on a mesa

or before me a sunrise
over endless blue water

but that’s not the place
for me now, or hereafter.

Instead I’m the singer
of gears full up with gravel,

chosen and forced to stare
into the sparks

that may ignite a prairie.
Remember the prairie

that is ready to burn?
I keep watch. Alarms

in my voice, are my name,
are my all. You sing of the ocean,

you hover above it. I will warn
of what’s coming. Cassandra

and I understand
who we are.