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
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