Dargie Anderson
A lone glove. Cottonwood fluff.
Geese in a snowstorm. On Valentine's Day,
a foil heart balloon, swept free and rising.
Great spools of blackbirds
unending along the highway;
thousands, undulating, above brown fields.
In fall, weeks since rain, billows
rise along the interstate. At first you think fire,
then notice the farm truck trundling down the gravel access road.
In Atchison today, a chemical leak—call it a release.
Sulfuric acid and sodium hypochlorite combine to create a chlorine cloud.
Shelter in place comes the directive.
Inside the college bars and the one pho joint
the TVs are all playing basketball. Oil droplets from the fryers
glow in the television's purple flicker.
A ground fog materializes in spring; the traffic app pings a warning.
We slow and dip into its blinding shimmer
where the highway passes through its depressions.