field notes ➤ Alexander Posey, circa 1899


The air without has taken fever,
Fast I feel the beating of its pulse;
The leaves are twisted on the maple,
In the corn the autumn’s premature;
The weary butterfly hangs waiting
For a breath to waft him thither at
The touch; the grass is curled and dust-blown;
The sun shines down as on a desert.

The air without is blinding dusty;
Cool I feel the west wind; I see
The sunlight, crowded on the porch, grow
Smaller till absorbed in shadow; the
Far hills erstwhile blue are changed to a gray;
Twilight shadows all the land apace;
And now I hear the shower falling
And the leaves clapping their hands for joy. ❞

Song of the Oktahutche: Collected Poems
by Alexander Posey
edited by Matthew Wynn Sivils
(University of Nebraska Press, 2008)

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