I head first
for the scraped-clean section
where see-through houses
are being born, so like
the collapsing remnants seen
in sunset farther west,
skeletons perched on the hilltop
against a whitened heaven.
Red Sold signs mark still-vacant lots.
Morning silence sings benediction
while the steeple of the Methodist Church
holds up the sky to the east.
But then, it is not silent, not really:
the under-thrum from the highways,
the drone of overhead passings,
the short twerps of birds.
They sing no soaring love songs
or callings out, just chirp chatter
of families around the morning table.
Ft. Worth is a distant blur and
the roofs of a recent nearby neighborhood
seem to be layered pyramids
of cast-aside dirt outside a mine or quarry.
Soon pickup trucks begin to stir
and manicured lawns wait
with word from the world sitting
there encased in dew-drenched,
Soon the bare land will be filled,
the sheared prairie gone.
But the street signs still whisper:
Scarlet Sage, Prairie Ridge,
Meadow Lark, Boxwood.