Six horned larks drift over the spare ground,
distancing as I approach their point.
Nothing here grows tall to draw the eye.
Only a stone's sudden-lemon wings
startle, grasshopper rattling away,
and the birds walk in the low mullein.
Six horned larks, an isle of slight motion
amid the spurge and salt grass' dull green.
It isn't the way of larks to be seen.
Mandarin countenance turned away,
drab backs merge with the field's mottlings.
Still, black brow raises. One watchful eye.
Six horned larks unseen by men that point
to blueprints outspread on the bare ground.
-- Jess Morton