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       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.

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