we three young boys, a gray winter day
on the high plains as winds blew down onto kansas
from the snow-capped colorados.
we found a berm away from the house
and from mom who might spot us
and then spank us — we never knew.
wind blew all the colors but gray away as
we huddled down into the dead grass, cold dirt,
looking for harmony, rhythm and a bit of warmth.
each of us took turns scraping and sawing
the half-strung bow over screeching strings
beneath the winds’ bitter-cold keening
unaware that we were damned to search
through music and painting and poetry
when what we needed was that bit of warmth.