Buffalo Ghosts: A poem in one part.

Here's a short poem I recently composed. What sort of feedback might the blogosphere yield?

After a thunderstorm on the prairie,
great herds of clouds amble across the plains,
obscuring the sun without darkening it.
Their massive bellies ride low
in the heightening immensity.

They fill the infinite sky
—from east to west
and north to south,
three-hundred-sixty degrees
with no end
and no beginning—
casting numberless shadows
on the emerald waves of grain,
and eternal rows of sugar beets and corn.

I wonder if they’re the ghosts of the buffalo.