Airless August. I feel like I’m drowning…
It takes a will of iron to keep on the path.
Dry dust snaking between waist high wheat,
a few green rogues ringing their unwelcome bells
under a blazing sun.
At twenty something
you have the luxury of projecting
your image into an imagined future:
picture the life that you’d like,
the right people and place.
A yellow combine travels in a cloud of dust
a streamlined machine, beautiful as a bug.
The driver in a glass cabin, bent forward
at the controls, cap perched on his head
as he cuts an obvious swathe.