A Red-winged Blackbird calls from a weathered cedar post. Chick, oak-a-lee. He’s gathering sun and seeds in his cultivated wheat field. Tar patches in the varicose cracks of the asphalt two-lane highway nearly glisten in this scorching cycle after the Long-waking. Stingy-grasses grow in the cracks. All but the imaginary single center lane shows green in the spring–pale baked brown now. Heat riffles the surface.
A solitary truck rattles by and he does nothing. He sees one almost each waking.
Another follows shortly after. He elevates his wings to test the dry air and show his bright epaulets but smoothes them back down.
A tight line of vehicles numbering more than a family, but less than a flock rumbles purposefully after.
Chick, chick, oak-a-lee.
The Red-winged Blackbird departs for that depression windward where there may still be mud-water and crunchy-bugs.
Word count: 143