the crescent moon a sickle, low over the wheat fields , pink band of
sky, crickets singing, one by one , a blink, the night so freckled. you
pause and I pause on the porch, the cold marble porch where the rickety
wooden one used to be. you light your pipe and a thousand smoky dreams
emerge. I will take you out of this ocean of rye and barley, out of this
desert of wheat to where life is sputtering.