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.