by Jon Naskrent

The prairie is golden and empty, save

for the oil derrick cut in its center.

A hawk circles, hoping some small creature

will soon forget its cover.

The cabin noise is nearly unbearable

so I turn the radio louder.

I’m wondering if the goldenness is inherent,

or a trick played by the rising morning sun,

and if it is a trick,

is that such a disaster?

The state’s stoppering the orphaned

wells—the hawk may catch his prey.

Oxidized oil turns golden, too.

In much the way that blood is blue.

Jon Naskrent is a poet from Western Illinois. His work was longlisted for the 2024 National Poetry Competition by the Poetry Society of the United Kingdom. He is currently pursuing his Master of Fine Arts in Poetry at Southern Illinois University-Carbondale.