After "Gray and Gold" by John Rogers Cox
Here is the crossroads we’ve all come to,
under storm clouds piled high as granite,
midwinter snow, lending illusory depth
to the flattest of territories.
The wheat glows gold, fields neat
as a pair of crustless sandwiches,
cut just so. All of nature in order,
but about to break loose.
This is the moment before
it all unravels, the fences broken,
the wheat trampled, burning,
wild river of rain running red through the road.