Sheaves of wheat mechanically embraced
in field after field, then meticulously sealed
in bin-bag black, scraps catching at hedgerows
all winter – remnants of another harvest.
Late March. These same fileds lie cased
in silver – not with an overnight dusting of snow,
not from the sparkle of a late frost, slow
to burn off, but thanks to the farmers’ Spring ritual:
their sheating of a freshly-tilled earth against
the vicissitudes of wind and weather. How fiercely
the sun glistens on row after row; how perfectly
a hard rain dances, penetrating just so.
How plastic announces each equinox
more loudly than the dawn chorus.