It’s harvest time and I’m sitting in a combine, going ’round and ’round in circles at a whopping 1.75 mph. Meanwhile, my brain is going ’round and ’round in plot circles, untangling knots, smoothing transitions, justifying twists.
The first gives me focused time to think, the second keeps me from going fruit-loopy bonkers from boredom.
Across the valley the wheat field grows.
Captured sun in rustling rows.
Quilted fields of rumpled squares
hide the mouse the coyote scares.
The wheat this year is gorgeous. I’d be more excited about that if we weren’t still trying to sell last year’s crop.
Out of sight the fence posts rot.
Careful stacks in a forgotten spot.
Long lost dreams of fruitful vines
laid to rest beneath the pines.