All the decay takes a long time to shape.
Absent of people, the eye notices each glint of the mundane
whittle and weed. Something unbuilt.

Most species of grasshoppers are general feeders.
At times infinite, they squall over ochre and launch
from the ground. Here the corn grew.

The sky stays empty like an intermission.
Remember the earth’s need: water, horizon, silk skin.
A shredder scraped the day with propulsive concentration

then carted off its heavy twist.
Last chaff of kernels and a place returning
to salted blunt surface. Everything open-ended.

Beetles crawl into and over set-aside sacks.
Nothing is ripe. Nothing yet possible or deepening.
You learn to expect, after the hacking, tamed air.

Furrows, soil pulled high. What I mean is the earth
can turn for a lifetime and cows
will still lie in the grass like perfectly browned loaves

lost in the land’s tread. In the dung.
Ravens settle on pickups. At dusk, the wind labors a bit
then relaxes. A kid kicks a caterpillar.