came round again: someone winnowed it

all away. The field sports a golden

stubble now. All summer

its upright citizens advanced

skyward, leafy chests puffed, bayonet

tips aimed at the roiling heads of sky

that plot thunder and gush. Creatures

rustled in the undergrowth. I love

that I’ll never learn what dramas swarm there

beneath the bulging eye of the moon. Dirt clods

remain, the last honks of bullfrogs

from an oozing bog. They don’t fight

the fallow days. Deer family picking

its way on slender ankles. The hunting season

will soon be upon us