Inside a small thicket, surrounded

by ripe wheat, a doe and fawn sleep.

Through afternoon heat, a combine,

a giant beast, rumbles steadily toward them . . .

The deer stay low, ears folded, eyes closed

against the whirlwind of noise, glinting steel.

Not until the sun and moon briefly share the sky,

do they rise and step cautiously

to the edge of the field, fading

in the dimming light,

the warm breeze pungent

with hay and fallen plums

from the abandoned orchard. 

 

 

This poem first appeared in Trajectory with the title "Late July Harvest."

Used here with the author’s permission.