Roman History on the Prairie

The prairie wind is Romanesque this evening.
Stars engaged behind something or other,
Call it cloud or what you will.

I spent the day searching for a word,
But it kept slipping from sight, O Pangur Bán.

With the state fair in the distance,
The expanse in the west with a Risk board of fields,
The goths from the city have parked their
Car on the lookout, which is the place to be.

An owl is making its rounds, speaking of someone
I can’t remember. The Astroturf on
The stoop is flaking off in the wind,
Making a name for itself in another world, perhaps.

Then again, everything present here
Is from someplace else.
Ptolemy, in your grave, what of our spiritual nature?
Fausta, who do you pursue?