West Texas

Crop circles here

are not mysterious,

created by some starry stranger.

They are a way of life —

the only way to coax

living things from the dust.

Some grow in pairs —

a crop-encrusted

dusty reel-to-reel.

Some overlap

like records

stacked a little too loosely.

Dots on top of dots.

They brand the landscape

with half-moons

and slices of pie.

Sometimes the sun

sucks the droplets away

before they are absorbed.

Beyond Amarillo

the earth begins to turn

from coerced green

to its ordinary sandy hue.

One thin dirt trail

leads only to another.