her husband keens,
threads the dead rows,

plots the land’s fevered sleep.
He wears a muddy buffalo cap,

listens for the stream,
becomes bodiless, wings

the color of night, quickens
to a crow.  His tight caution

of low choked vowels
pecks her awake.

~ Found poem composed/modified from words in Claudia Emerson’s poem “Scarecrow at the Forks of Buffalo”