The wind skips across the cornfields
like Paganini’s bow on his violin’s neck.

Silver silos are hungry for the harvest
at the end of the third movement.

Broken down clapboard house is gray
abandoned on the afternoon of a fawn.

07/17/2005

Author's Note: Written as we drove across Kansas on our way to Utath and Las Vegas listening to classical music.

Posted on 07/17/2005
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