One Time the Great Spirit Moved Over North Carolina in the Shape of an Exquisite Ballet

Andy and Barney are dancing
in a field of green grass and sunlight.

That doesn't sound like much:
"green grass and sunlight." But
trust me. It is—really—and lovely.

The grass up to their knees waves
like a waterbed whenever one leaps past.

Stuff flies out of it: little orange
things with wings, white puffs,
pinholes of no color rise
from the green streaming blades.

And the sun, going down as it is sunset,
veils the frame in a golden hue and glows.

They look happy, young, and well here
dancing their Dance of Grass and Sun,

of Uniforms Pressed and Tan.
One arm reaches to a cloud passing over,
one foot springs off the earth, stag-like.

Do you need to know exactly
who Andy and Barney are?
No, but I will tell you they are

policemen, from a town
where policemen are so full
of weighty grace, they take to the air

like trout hauled up on a silver hook
that minds its time as quiet
as a burnished, bulletless gun.

Jennifer L. Knox

before or more