After miles of buff slopes
near harvest, the giant shapes
against the horizon are markers
The harvest poured twice -
to the storage silos and out again,
all that spring green to all this gold.
Smell of dusk and straw.
Tinge of yeast and a dusty thirst
not quenched in the pouring.
They wait like mammoth mosques
cast against gold dust above hills
where russet mare's tails cross a sun swollen
in summer abundance.