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Blowout
Dust and dew, then later on the same bare ground, noon rain—
two distinct smells maybe because there is something, something
that changes as I unfurl myself into the day.
You might feel this for yourself
if some summer you came back with me to Burwell—
back to the Sandhills and the little bluestem
and the big bluestem,
to the chokecherries, chokecherry pies and nobody
buying Murph’s wife Rosie’s chokecherry pies,
to Highway 96, Valleyview Flats and the north end of the lake,
back to pints of Windsor Canadian
stuffed into the crack between the seat and the backrest of your cousin Dale’s friend’s
Chevy with the old coins and the crumpled wrappers and the something gritty that
gets up under your nails when you grope for the bottle,
back to just over the Loup County line, by the turnout where the survey marker was.
The bare spot there. 
