to claim a small piece of this earth

the wagtail wags its warning dance
puffs out its downy chest and sings
forth a song of bluster

a patch of buffalo grass
scattered and spotty, sun-burned
dead or dying or both,
he stakes the corners with his cries

the wind waits out his waning breath
with patience marked in centuries,
it wraps those meek alarm-chirps
in murmuring linen
and cradles them as they die

to each of us our own designs,
that to others sum to nothing.