by Lucy Lu

The Western Prairie cools
like the quiet moon.

Returning leaves snuggle
at tree roots, busy gophers

dig holes, acorns drop and plop.
Summer fades fast, as winter

wriggles in. A cicada sings
its last song to a leaf swirling

alone in the wind that carries
the smell of Ma's sweet rice

and Pa's southern
accent calling my name.