Your winter grain lies cut and ripe
growing gold in the cool dry air
buoyant in sweet odor and ooze.
It is lying still under blue
skies and orange sun,
while blackbirds amble lazily,
pecking insects and flying.
The men who cut it have gone.
You will hear the sound of their return,
perhaps in the night. Their throbbing
machines will awaken you,
maybe when the moon is yet full
and the moist half-life of the grain
cannot wait. They will bale it tight
and be gone, leaving stubble
over which you will walk slowly
remembering in the glow of morning
and later, in evening shadows
long and deep.
By Ron Harton