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,

plastic-covered newsprint.

Soon the bare land will be filled,

the sheared prairie gone.

But the street signs still whisper:

Scarlet Sage, Prairie Ridge,

Meadow Lark, Boxwood.