Has arrived.
Silent rows stand breathless,
Sweating in the dense heat,
Of August.
Blackbirds do not yet circle;
The sheaves are still too young,
Kernels burgeoning sweetness,
Hiding from the ravagers
Soon to come.
The tall field, burdened in the heat
Broods over tassels brown,
Ripens corn beneath a yellow sun,
Waits the pickers' marauding hands,
The tractor-roar of silage foragers,
And relentless tearing of plows.
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC
Has arrived.
Silent rows stand breathless,
Sweating in the dense heat,
Of August.
Blackbirds do not yet circle;
The sheaves are still too young,
Kernels burgeoning sweetness,
Hiding from the ravagers
Soon to come.
The tall field, burdened in the heat
Broods over tassels brown,
Ripens corn beneath a yellow sun,
Waits the pickers' marauding hands,
The tractor-roar of silage foragers,
And relentless tearing of plows.
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