Russet clouds of harvest dust
run low in the gully,
settle in the sand pits,
settle on a tongue and choke
the throats of a damp fall.
And there, below the drying towers,
propane men wink into ledgers,
as the combines churn on –
the grains still plump –
stalk still green at the soils,
saturated with expense incurred
of weathers and toils.
And down by the sloughs,
down where rains gathered and stalled,
a yield succumbs to rot and tight winters.
And there, on the ridges, beneath a ringed moon,
those men with parched gambling hands
tally a season not by what twists in the auger,
but by that which lies threshed, mildewed
in the muds of wet Autumn.
Image: Jericka Cruz on Unsplash
We cam see vignettes of America shining out if you look into your poems Devon. This takes me back to the sort of scene Steinbeck might have described. Enjoyed it a lot!
Thanks, Ray. May I say the same for you. You have a way of bringing the specifics of UK life to us who are unfamiliar.