Watching the Harvest
Clouds of wheat dust hang in the late afternoon air,
Tiny pieces of chaff and stem,
Like some mythic desert storm,
Almost blotting out the summer sun.
Two combines carve patterns across the field
Slow and ponderous,
Yet with a lumbering grace,
A dance of mechanized behemoths.
They turn the corner of the field
And pass close to where I stand
Waiting for you.
I am engulfed in the flying cloud
That surges in their wake.
The bare skin of my arms is dusted with grit.
My hair will hold the scent of fresh cut wheat for hours.
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