::

I remember how we stood

    In the field, while far away

Blue hazes drifted on from hill to hill

And curled like smoke from many a sunset wood,

And the loaded wagon creaked while standing still...

    I heard my father say,

    "The last corn shock can stay."

We had seen a pheasant there

    In the sun; he went inside

As if he claimed the shock, as if he meant

To show us, with the field so nearly bare,

We had no right to take his rustic tent.

    And so we circled wide

    For home, and let him hide.

The first wild ducks flashed by

    Where the pasture brook could hold

The sunset at the curve, and drifting floss

Escaped the wind and clung.  The shocks were dry

And rustled on the wagon. Far across

    The field, against the cold,

    The last shock turned to gold.

~Glenn Ward Dresbach