In today’s Holocene epoch,
Nebraska lies far from the ocean,
but the dry grassy stems
of last season’s brome
shift and sift into a sandy beach
through eyes slitting and squinting.

I lie on my back in the field,
crunching the brittle blades,
and close my eyes.
The sun, tame at this distance,
warms my cheeks,
leaking blood-red through closed lids.

The breeze shuffles through leafless trees,
a steady whispering susurration,
sounding like littoral waves
breaking upon the beach at tide’s ebb,
too distant to distinguish,
a hushed rush churning sand and foam.

The birds of dawn and dusk
are quiet during midday.
Religious brothers of two Hours–
Matins and Vespers–
owl, cardinal, mallard, and turkey
hold a sustained ornithic fermata.

This silence floating on windy waves
parts gently for a run of rhythmic crunches,
a muted crescendo from padded feet.
A shadow passes over my face
and returns, eclipsing the sun.
The man in the dog’s head moon has come.

David M. Frye
April 2, 2009
Denton, Neb.