Sunday, November 4, 2012

The Dying Prairie, or He Just Walks On

A stiff wind whips across the dying prairie,

pulling up the dead grass and depositing it among the still living.

The stone grey sky casts the gloom over

an old mutt dog trudging down the solitary dirt road.

The wind taunts his wheezing pant like a bully,

whistling and howling in his ears,

doing its best to push him over.

The mutt is too tired to howl or bark

or growl or even whine.

He just walks on,

hanging his head low to keep the wind out of his eyes,

which are the same shade of foggy grey

as the patches of fur on his dingy coat.

The wind makes him shiver, but it doesn’t speed or slow his pace.

It ducks through the posts of a collapsing fence along the side of the road

and asks him,



The dog doesn’t answer because he doesn’t know.

Copyright (C) 2012 by Eric Landuyt

1 comment:

  1. Awkward wording with, "pulling up the dead grass and depositing it among the still living." You could benefit with showing instead of telling with, "The mutt is too tired... even whine."
    I gotta admit, the last line made me chuckle a bit. It's a nice subversion to what the poem seems to establish at first, and that concludes it nicely.