The grains are ripening now
the wheat turns gold,
rape and flax have lost their bloom
heavy with their produce
bend with seed.
How still ! All in silence hope
to go unnoticed
the blue/black front of lightening
flattens fields with hail
close at hand.
The ditches have been mowed
yet shrubs survive
nesting birds are on their second batch
hiding motionless, as if
My dog, no sense of what’s to come,
seeking nests, he stirs things up,
head down, he chases
into the fields..
only the tail above the tall grain
betrays his place.
Or ears flying he leaps in view
Too intent to hear (or to obey)
“Where is the dog?”
or with the crop, the field, the air, the earth,
that everything is not
just now, the same. So
preoccupied is he.