There are a few fields of gold,
scattered between the many of corn and soy,
that turn from their soft green hues,
warm and glowing.
And on that perfect day,
are cut, baled and stacked as straw,
the wheat already picked from the tip of each stem.
Many times I find I have missed the baling—
turn the corner to nothing more
than fading stubble where the golden stems had been.
But yesterday, I found them working.
It was, after all, that perfect day.
A Chipmunk's Hawkish End
3 hours ago