Monday, September 17, 2012


I remember how we stood
    In the field, while far away
Blue hazes drifted on from hill to hill
And curled like smoke from many a sunset wood,
And the loaded wagon creaked while standing still...
    I heard my father say,
    "The last corn shock can stay."

We had seen a pheasant there
    In the sun; he went inside
As if he claimed the shock, as if he meant
To show us, with the field so nearly bare,
We had no right to take his rustic tent.
    And so we circled wide
    For home, and let him hide.

The first wild ducks flashed by
    Where the pasture brook could hold
The sunset at the curve, and drifting floss
Escaped the wind and clung.  The shocks were dry
And rustled on the wagon. Far across
    The field, against the cold,
    The last shock turned to gold.

~Glenn Ward Dresbach


Olivia said...

Oh, such a favorite! Thank you.

Jodi said...

Lovely, my kindred friend.