Cradling a handful of Illinois dust,
dry residue of sycamore, deer
and ancient Mississippians,
I splay my fingers like an eagle's claw -
releasing it to the fickle breezes.
A sudden gust of wind
swirls up an ocher cloud -
a cyclone dervish of sand and clay.
My hand, upraised for a shield
ever so briefly vanishes -
veiled by the impatient dust.
I see it...a lovely painting with words. Dorothy Singing Still