By Jason W. Johnson
 
From out of the dark
stirs a spirit of leaves,
chattering teeth,
and a baby’s breath.
 
Heavy like dying suns,
smoke chokes the woods on all sides
but one—flanked
 
by farmhouses
and bending wheat,
a supplication to the dirt
which reared it,
into which it will fall
beneath the combine’s blade,
beneath its tireless wheels.
 
 

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