Crows in Wheatfield
flecks of pepper
in saffron stipples,
summer dreams
atoss on straw beds.
a scythe might reap through
if it writhed like a snake,
feverish implement,
stroked to obsess.
i can hear the labor,
vaporing off the canvas,
a chain song that could
overwhelm my lobe.
it wavers, this scene.
a stung pond, a façade troubled.
peace,
perturbed by pigment,
ripples.
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