Due west I drive,
across the great plains,
past many a farmer
in grimy overalls with mud-stained hands,
grinding miles out of his tractor
in the welcome shadow of a passing cloud.
The land is flat,
primary colors in all directions,
more sweat on the brow than in the sky.
Silos stand like rocket ships
long past their blastoff date.
Corn fields keep their distance from me,
prefer to gather at the horizon.
I see an occasional cow,
hear a raucous rusty rooster cry.
And there’s a field of melons.
Another of soy beans.
It’s all of the food I will someday eat
only it’s coming to me sooner.
