(No exposition from the letter writer).
Late fall in a Wyoming dry-land prairie,
the grasses firmly unite
(they do not sway, do not speak).
The distant Antelope watch me;
apprehensive and aware of my presence,
afraid they will be seen and hunted.
I shoot grey photo’s of the herd,
walk against the grains,
and beyond the game trail
(dejected and stung by a honeybee).