I like to step out in the prickly pear with sun from there to here in hills we call the Goosebill or the Knees. I like to walk out on a coulee and look down. The land is far and flat with something way off at the ends. A bed of glaciers. The peaked Little Belts. From here the earth falls down, settles in a grove of willow deer. They lift their heads along the river; each of them a color out of dusk. This cloud rolls up from a mousing hawk and a farmer tarps the day's last haul of wheat. We're all flatlanders here fired in a rush of sky and storm. We bring in dogs and laundry annd call our children home.