The Cornfield

The cornstalks vanished overnight Shaven fields once flowing, green and gold Now Dad’s evening whisker stubble Ghost limbs of the cornfield Flocks of nomadic Ravens Feast on the invisible And scowl with those empty black eyes Impervious to man’s judgment And I think, There is nothing as beautiful Than the first snow on a barren field Shadows playing with the evening light And dance among the vacant mounds