The red tail wove through blond, tall timothy,
then exploded–white furry rump of fox
flowing down its well-worn path
fluent with the language of the field.
August, August mad-dog days.
Feeling headless, thoughts dried up,
emancipated, alive to the fiery oriflamme
I followed aimlessly, will submissive to delight,
adopted kit of elegant and easy motion,
and to weave, 0 to weave, the waves
of the wheat, the whiff of the wind, the heads
of the grain and the hard ground jarring
By Jeff Burt