The waist high grass bows
to the mowing blades
Slack heaps trail the field like discarded snakeskins drying in the slanting summer sun.
With clear skies, the farmer spends each day on his blue tractor, turning bales.
Along the borders between fields, their round weight casts dark circles on the grass, a home beneath them now for worms and voles.
Above, the moon like a scythe hangs against the pale barn wall of heaven.