Buffalo Gal buckles up her galoshes ....

Buffalo Gal buckles up her galoshes, she puts on her coat
from the surplus store. She knows that the prairie
watches and watches, she knows that the sky
is flung like a door. She knows how to break the sod
with a pickaxe, she knows how to burn the chest-deep grass.
She has at her back the Roundheads and Cossacks,
she has in her eyes an endless roar. She's dug into earth,
she's built walls of grasses, with snakes dropping through
the roof in rain. She's lost limbs to scythes,
to scythes and cradles, her sight to the sun, her men to grain.
Buffalo Gal goes out to the pasture; there's no one to go,
no one left but her. And now out of season
the sheep are lambing, and snow flies like sand
before the storm. She thinks that she hears
an old tongue singing, she thinks that her ears
begin to warm. (It's only the wind, that endless roaring --
Death leaves his boots at the lean-to door.)