Sing praises for the arrow of the furrow,
the versa where it turns,
the farmer’s heart that burns,
the crumbling bank where owls and foxes burrow.
Sing praises for the arrow of the tree line.
Let it be ten rows wide
with corn on either side,
refuge to which our pheasants make a bee line.
Sing praises for the arrows of our ditches,
the flooded fields they drain,
the cover they retain
where teenage boys quarter their black lab bitches.
Sing praise for the Lakota’s bows and arrows,
for winter’s songs, our chickadees and sparrows.