Just Harvested FieldsReveal the Curves and ContoursOf the Resting Earth
October SunsetsButtery Light Floats AboveJust Harvested Fields
The Sky Speaks AutumnIn Light, Motion and DistanceSummer Fields Listen
In Bare April Fields Two Young Cranes Dance the Sun Down And I am Content
Still Prairie Mornings Restore Me From the Illness That is Time and Space
Low Winter Sun Through Bare Limbed Windbreaks Long Shadows Etch Snow Covered Fields
Wind Swept Clouds, Blue Sky, Deep Snow Rests Quietly on Fields Dreaming of Spring
Sunlight Spatters Through Bare Tree Limbs and Across Frozen Stubbled Fields
Mist Rising Above Harvested Fields Paints in the Colors of Sunrise
August Whispers Fall In Sunlight Draped on Fields Like Sheerest Golden Silk
A Year of Sunlight On August Fields, Aged Like Wine Ripe, Luscious, and Full
Sunshine Breaking Through At Day’s End Casts Flannel Light On Umber Fields
Weathered by Years, Grey Barn Leans on a Horizon Of Ripening Wheat
Crossing the High Plains I was Unprepared for the Religious Training
Cleansed in Molten Shades Of Summer Green, Sienna Grass and Golden Wheat
I Was Ready When the Mountains First Appeared For Genuflexion
Sun Silvered Blacktop Cleaves High Corn Below Blue Haze At Summer’s Far End
Crickets Calling to A Time Warped Dust Bowl Sunset. Still Summer Winds Down
Lush Late Spring Fields Draped On the Hills Like a Beloved Shawl on Bare Shoulders
Winter Winds Painted In the Drifts Trailing Fence Posts Along the Covered Fields
Sanded Country Roads, Like Lost Paths in Leafless Woods, Revealed by the Snow
Watching Farms and Fields, Forests and Sky Passing By Whispering Meaning
Just Harvested Fields Look Brushed, Curried and Ready For Winter Stable
Farmsteads Scattered Like Promises Across Plowed Fields To Blurred Horizons
Blue Night Laid Across The Frozen Fields Like a Shroud In Rising Silence
Thin country highways Thrown like streamers on the hills To mark the way home.
Thunderstorm landscape In muted grays and vibrant greens Rumbling as it rests
An April sunrise A hawk watches mists rising From newly plowed fields.
Sunday morning streets Remembering their days as empty country lanes
Golden fields fading To beige, patiently waiting For the first snow fall
Crops fill the valleys Horizon to horizon Just South of Lodi
Late August sweet corn Corderoys the countryside Butter, salt and bliss