We pass the farm fields, spreading in all directions, filling the space between various small villages, as we travel longer distances, out from our own small town.
This season’s harvest now past, hidden homes appear where acres of tall, dense corn touched the blue of the horizon.
My favorite marker of these places we pass, the trees, standing apart from it all.
Rooted here for years, as these fields, each time,
have turned from green...
Perhaps spared the axe or saw in order to shade the workers here, man or beast. Or grown from a seed, fallen in the pile of rocks cleared from the earth before planting.
In any case, they reign--
magnificent markers in a resting landscape.
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