A Dying Art
In an American primitive painting
she fetches a pail from a well;
the bucket on her hip is full of
broken eagles,
wind turbines churn in the distance.
Corn fields are bundled together.
Drones hum like doves in the evening.
The art of moon-spinning
is practiced on front porches.
People make do with
transitory Amazon wants.
Most get caught by the faceless winds,
those rattling sighs that spread
the dry seeds
of unwanted crops.
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