When you drive at dusk, alone,
After the corn is harvested, the wind
Scatters bits of dry husk along the road.
A farmer has draped a groundhog’s carcass
Across the corner of a wire fence
And the crows have pecked out its eyes.
Your headlights show these things
To a part of your mind that cannot hurry,
That has never learned to decide.
While the car goes on, you get out
And stand, with the chaff blowing
And crickets in the grass at the road’s edge.
In the distance there is a dog barking
And somewhere a windmill turning in the wind.