Dust of the summer hues in the evening rays. Between the hedges, the sun goes down. It casts long fingers across the fields of light, beds go gold, the fingers pet the land. Eyes mellowed by the cotton sky and memory clouds, thee cushions of the evening, a reminder of night, the pillowed heads of dream town. From here, the men drive up and down the furrows, the wheel marks all the same, the pathways of life unchanged. The buzzard calls by, the quiet one, the one who knows not to be heard. Movement of the wings, hovering the dust, the watchful eye over time. Furrow in the skies, the invisible paths, the hunters trails, unchanged over time, this is not our sky, feathered leaf dwellers smooth the evening blue with fawny tawny arms, wings, hugging the sky, wanting to be hugged, sometimes calling like a baby or meowing like a cat.
Gold, gold, old golden sun, you know the one, the round ball that hangs low over the field of light. Shadows longer, longer now, they play and a flock of crows casts a shadow, a shadow flock on the open field. Calls of birds at the end of a great day saying’I’m here, where are you brother’, ‘I’m here sister. The chicks are nearly fledged’, ‘good nearly fledged’. Up and down the harvesters go, collecting the summers gold, the food, the wheat. The big rotary comb, sweeping the stalks, cutting, de-seeding, and straw, golden leftovers. The biscuit man then come to collect it, to suck it into an other process, to make it into bales, giants on the landscape.