End of Summer

Green. Green. Far and Wide.
From the horizon’s edge to the picket fence
a few feet from the porch;
waves of corn ripple across a sea of green.

Long, slender leaves on tall stalks line-up
like emerald spears guarding golden ears of corn;
while tassels gracefully sway, like a maestro
directing nature’s choir of humming insects.

A farmer savors the smell of freshly cut grass;
he’s the captain of this dirt ship,
his eyes are fixed on the horizon–
terraced walls of dark, tempest clouds
billowing and creeping
over the horizon.

Faint breeze turns into regular gusts.
Corn husk start making rasping sounds,
like carpenters using sandpaper;
whispery rustle turns the corn field
into a murmuring crowd.

Crows caw high above–
calling smaller birds,
dozens of them burst skyward,
flying frantically
toward daylight.

The farmer shifts back into his rocker,
grasping its arms, the helm of his ship
man-spreading his legs,
planting his work boots
onto the porch.

Clouds touch ground
thunderous wind begin grabbing
corn by their golden hair;
yanking them up,
tossing them away—
like weeds.

No sense cutting this corn field now!
The bank will get it. And the mortgage.
The farmer crouches down,
he shouts–
Come And Get Me!